


A Poison Tree

by MildredMost



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Beating, Boarding School, Bullying, Clothed Sex, Coming In Pants, Corporal Punishment, Cricket, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Love, First Time, First Time Topping, Gambling, Georgian Period, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Period-Typical Underage, Pining, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:45:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4292964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/pseuds/MildredMost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened between Ross and George at school that began their life-long feud?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Boy

George Warleggan was looking for his Latin homework.

When he’d first started school some months ago he’d thought he’d become careless with his belongings, forgetful. He’d berated himself, tried harder to remember exactly where he’d left things, made a point of putting them away neatly. And yet they had still gone missing.

It had taken him a couple of weeks to realise that the other boys were taking them. Stupid of him really, but then he was stupid about a lot of things. He hadn’t been around boys his age much. It was a sort of joke, he supposed, although it didn’t feel funny. But then his Uncle always told him he hadn’t much of a sense of humour.

He peered into the common room. It didn’t seem like anyone was in there, waiting to laugh at him, but you never knew. He lingered a moment, debating with himself. Eventually the cold of the corridor and the lure of the fire-warmed room decided him.

The room was not empty as he’d hoped. At the far end, near the fire Ross Poldark was sitting with his back to him, his feet up on a table, shuffling and reshuffling a pack of cards. George relaxed a little. Ross did not usually notice his existence, and he certainly never joined in when the others were baiting him. He was safe.

He lifted the lid of the nearest desk. His book wasn’t in there, just a sheet of blotting paper with a doodle of a naked woman on it. He hastily shut the lid. The next held an apple core and a copy of Fielding’s Tom Jones with the cover ripped off.

The third held his Latin book and notes. The notes had been ruined with an ugly sketch of George in a blacksmith’s apron reciting Latin verbs all wrong - unfair, he’d been working really hard on his Latin after finding out how far behind the others he was - but the book was intact. Relieved, George clutched it to his chest and let the desk lid bang back into place.

There was a scuffle at the window behind him, and an older boy emerged from behind a shutter, the waft of illicit pipe smoke clouding around his head. He glared at George as he shoved the pipe into a pocket.

"Um. No need to put it out on my account," said George, attempting a smile. "I wouldn't have told anyone."

The boy’s face flushed red. "How dare you address me without an introduction?" he said. He slammed the shutter violently against the window.

"If I have offended you I’m sorry for it," said George, backing away. “ I did not know I required one."

The boy looked him up and down, and George felt a twist of panic in his stomach.

"You are that new boy, aren't you. You must be seventeen, or nearly. Pity your people couldn't scrape the cash together to send you to school earlier - too late for you to learn any manners now. But then you’re from Trade. You probably couldn’t learn them if you tried."

George felt the sting as though he had been slapped. "And yet you have been here since a child, and have no manners at all," he said. He turned to leave.

The boy stepped forward at that, grabbed the textbook from George's hands and smacked him hard in the mouth with it. Startled by the pain, George cried out.

"Be quiet or I'll shut you up myself." the boy advanced upon him again, and kicked him hard in the shin, sending him backwards against a desk.

Ross Poldark erupted across the room like a fury.

"If you do not leave him be I will give you the thrashing of your life," he said, grabbing a handful of the boy’s shirt front, causing him to stagger backwards.

"For God's sake Ross," he said, struggling in Ross's grip, "What's it to you?"

"I don't like to see nasty bullies keeping others down for silly points of manners. Do you see me care whether I have an introduction or not before I speak?"

"You are a Poldark, you don't need one. Anyway, at least you know you should have one - _he_ did not, and needs to be taught."

"Well then here is your introduction," Ross said, shoving the boy over onto the school room floor. "George Warleggan meet William Trelawny. I'm sure you are delighted to make his acquaintance."

"You should watch yourself," said William furiously, picking himself up. "You don't want to make an enemy of me."

"I don't give a damn about you one way or the other. You are nothing to me whether you like me or not. Now go away."

William stormed from the room, shoving George with his shoulder as he passed him, and earning himself a boot to the arse from Ross which sent him sprawling out the door. Ross slammed it after him and turned to George.

"Did he hurt you much?" he said.

George inexplicably felt tears well in his eyes and walked quickly to the window to compose himself.

"No. I'm much obliged to you." he managed to bite off the 'sir' which tried to follow.

"Well. Good. William's a prig with a nasty streak so don't be afraid to give him a good thump back next time."

George turned to look at Ross then and smiled. "I don't know if I'm the thumping sort."

Ross laughed. "I suppose not all of us are. I can always break his head for you now and again, if you'd like. I'd enjoy it."

He hitched himself onto a school desk, legs swinging carelessly. He didn't seem to be in any hurry to get away from George like most of the boys. George observed that Ross's breeches were stained with ink as if he had been using them as a pen-wipe. His hair stood on end in black, wild curls, and his skin was tanned like a sailor, even in December. Almost too handsome to look at, George found himself thinking, and felt himself flush.

"I didn't know you knew my name," he said, bending to pick up his book and to hide his red face.

"I liked it when Professor Brown read it out at Prayers, so I remembered it. Old Cornish name. My father used to use a blacksmith called Warleggan, although he must be dead now."

"Not dead, just infirm," said George. Ross raised his eyebrows at him. "My grandfather." He waited for Ross's expression to change, for him to abruptly excuse himself.

But Ross's face lit with a smile. "Well, there we are! It's a small world.”

Ross’s smile was like being run through by lightning. George felt his mouth go dry. He sat down quickly and pretended to flick through the pages of the stupid book which had caused all the trouble in the first place.

“George,” Ross leant forward, his hands on his thighs and lowered his voice. George looked up again.

“You are an interesting fellow, you know. You should come tonight with Francis and I - we are slipping out to the inn. You can tell us of life in a smithy."

"I did not grow up in a smithy!" said George, affronted.

"Oh? Shame. Well. Come anyway. Who do you room with? Oh, him. He's inclined to tale-bear but I'll fix him. That is settled then, I shall come for you at 10 o'clock, so be ready."

With that, Ross hopped down off the desk, clapping George on the shoulder as he passed him. "You're bleeding a bit, you know," he said and lit off down the corridor. George raised a hand to his lip, feeling as if he'd been caught up in a storm.

That night saw George in a ferment of indecision. Should he go, or should he not? He had never broken rules before. If this was what he must do to win friends then perhaps he should. But he was at school to learn to be a gentleman, not drink in taverns. And yet Ross and Francis were gentlemen, and they did it. And what to wear that would not give him away as a schoolboy? His school breeches were surely not...no. And his shirt wasn’t clean. No, he would stay. But Ross was so...

"George," Ross was whispering at the door. George had just finished putting his school breeches back on for the second time, and in his confusion pulled the door open in his half dressed state. He saw immediately that he shouldn't have worried. Ross was wearing the same ink-stained breeches from earlier, and an even more disreputable waistcoat, with a button - no, two - missing, and a tear at the pocket. "Aren't you ready?"

"Yes, I...hang on," George said, pulling a shirt over his head and snatching up the nearest waistcoat. George’s room mate raised a bleary head from his pillow.

“You keep your nose out, Harry,” said Ross, “This is none of your concern. And you’ll keep quiet about this or I’ll tell everyone about You Know What.” Harry looked sheepish and lay back down quickly.

George had just finished fastening his waistcoat when Ross grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him neatly out of the room. "My coat!"

"The stable hands let us take their cloaks when we go. Better disguise. They loan us horses too, for a tip of course. Come on, Francis is waiting outside."

They crept down the creaking wooden stairs, Ross leading them through corridors by the darkest and most obscure routes, until they were out, under the full moon, the scent of wood smoke on the air. George felt a thrill of excitement. He had done it.

A fresh fall of snow covered the ground and muffled their footsteps as they crossed the cobbled yard. George shivered. Francis stood under a tree, holding the reins of two horses, with two cloaks over his arm. "At last," he said impatiently, throwing the cloaks at them. "Thought you'd been rumbled." He looked at George. "I could only persuade them to loan us these two, I didn't have the tin for more. You don't mind, do you Warleggan, sharing with Ross? You haven't much aptitude for riding from what I've seen anyhow."

George's defenses went straight up. "I had not the opportunity such as you and your cousin have had, to learn to ride in my youth," he said primly.

"Oh, I didn't mean it that way you silly ass. Now. Come on, I am gasping for a drink!" Francis swung himself up into the saddle of one of the horses and dug his heels in smartly, setting off at a trot.

George took a deep breath and looked up at the remaining horse. He wished they didn't frighten him so. He'd much rather shoe one than ride one.

Ross put a warm hand on his arm. "You get up ahead of me and I'll sit behind and steer," he said. "Up you go, that's it."

George did not mind that Ross was talking to him as if he were a skittish horse himself. And when Ross swung himself up and settled close behind him he could not think of anything but the boy behind him.

George had always had the most terrible crushes on other boys. “hero worship,” his father had said when he had sacked George's handsome young tutor, replacing him with a stout old fellow with gout. “Perversion,” his Uncle Cary had said, when he had dragged George into his office by his hair, and administered the strap so liberally George could not sit down for two days. He had only been saying goodbye to his tutor when his Uncle had seen them; he had pressed his hand for the briefest of moments. But it was as if his Uncle could see into his soul.

Sometimes he wondered if he was cursed. The thoughts that had begun with his tutor had not stopped when the tutor was removed, and if anything were worse. It was as if a dam had burst within him. He tried and tried to admire the girls he passed in the street, to yearn after their smooth skin and small waists and soft ringlets. But it was no good. He wanted the scrub of stubble and the hardness of muscle against him, not curves and softness. He was disgusting and twisted. He felt so alone with this secret, this horrible snake of a thing coiled in his chest.

He could feel Ross's warm breath on the back of his neck as he settled into the saddle and he scrubbed a hand across his eyes.

"Put your hands here," said Ross, guiding George, "I will have to have my arms around here, like this. I hope you do not mind."

"It is tolerable," George said hoarsely.

"Good, then let's catch up Francis."

Ross urged the horse on and George was distracted by trying to keep his seat. The freezing night air calmed his red face, even if it did not calm his mind. Every movement Ross made behind him, every breath on his neck or touch on his arm sent George reeling, although he tried to tell himself it was the horseriding that was frightening him, not anything else.

Ross chatted casually and called out the odd remark to Francis, seeming unaware of George’s short responses and before he knew it, they saw the lanterns of the tavern ahead.

Francis dismounted with a whoop. “Hurry up you laggards!” 

The tavern was dark and low beamed, and packed to the gills with a mixture of farm hands, fishermen and miners. George wondered how they would ever get a drink, but the innkeeper recognised the Poldarks straight away and lent over the bar to greet them.

“You boys again? Why your fathers bother paying for your schooling I don’t know. You’re nothing but a pair of drunken scoundrels,” he said.

“Well, we’re not drunk,” said Francis. “But don’t worry, we’re planning to be.” The innkeeper laughed and began to pour them ale.

George sipped his drink nervously. The proximity to someone as vital as Ross was heady enough, but add to that the adrenaline from the rule breaking and the lively atmosphere of the tavern, and he felt overwhelmed. Added to that, he was worried the ale would make him forget the manners he so painstakingly cultivated. 

But as soon as the warmth of the ale spread from his belly to his legs and head, he began to relax. After two ales he was relaxed enough to join Francis in poking fun at how scruffy Ross was. After a couple more, he taught the Poldark boys the words to “Oyster Nan”, a song he’d learnt from his Grandfather’s apprentice - a song so lewd his father had leathered him for merely whistling the tune.

"I like you better like this you know," said Ross when he had finished roaring with laughter. He clapped an arm around his shoulders. "Not all...buttoned up."

"T'isn't that I am buttoned up," said George, and he could hear the Cornish slipping into his voice. After four ales he did not care. "But I must be careful to always present myself as a gentleman."

"What care you for that?”

"I have to care Ross," said George. "I have not your family name. At all times I must be aware that..."

"Nonsense. See how little I care for these things, and I'd thrash anyone who said I was not a gentleman."

"You must have it to be able to disregard it," said George. "I don't know how else to explain it to you. You have a Name."

Ross shrugged his shoulders, finished his drink and shook his head.

“Let’s forget all this. Another drink, Francis!”

George felt invincible that night. They sang, they drank; Francis got in a fight and lost, Ross arm-wrestled one of the miners from his father’s copper mine and won. George ran bets on both and came away with a profit, which he then spent on rum for them all. The inn keeper threw them out in the end, quite amiably but firmly, as the sun began to rise.

They rode home together in high spirits.

“Well Francis, did you enjoy having Margaret in your lap for most half an hour?” Ross teased.

“I’d have enjoyed it more if I’d had the money to keep her there longer.”

George was confused. “Why would you need money? She seemed to like you very much. She called you handsome.”

Francis laughed. “Well. I am very handsome, it’s true. But George, she is a lady of...negotiable affections.”

‘You mean…”

“For someone who knows the words to one of the most shocking songs I’ve ever heard, you certainly are an innocent, George.”

George felt deflated. Margaret had called him handsome as well and he’d liked it. In fact he had felt overjoyed, like he could perhaps get crushes on women too, and be normal. He felt Ross chuckling into the back of his neck. “Don’t worry George, Francis didn’t realise either, the first time they met.”

“Oh but I soon learnt!” said Francis over his shoulder, as they arrived back at school in the faint dawn light. “I think I still bear the scar.”

He dismounted with drunken grace, then ruined it by falling straight over. “Damn.”

“God Francis, you are three sheets to the wind,” said Ross. “Go in, or we’ll all be caught. George and I will stable the horses.”

“Well, all right,” said Francis, getting unsteadily to his feet. He tottered off in the direction of the main house and was soon out of sight.

George dismounted clumsily and watched as Ross did the same a little more skillfully, swinging his long legs easily over the saddle. He had been stealing glances at Ross all night, but this time let his gaze linger a little too long and was caught.

"What is it George? You are staring at me."

"Nothing. Just. Your hair is up on end." George could feel his mouth running away with him. “It is so wild.”

“Wild?” said Ross, quirking an eyebrow. He lifted a hand and ruffled George's hair too, freeing his curls from the pomade which held them in place and tumbling them over his forehead. George's hands flew to his head.

"There. It becomes you more like that," Ross said, laughing. "You cannot see so much of your face."

"You are not amusing," said George. "What is wrong with my face?"

"Oh come, George, you must know you have a very nice face. Let me see it." Ross took George's chin and tilted his face to his own with a teasing smile. "Yes. I am right."

George tried to squirm away then, lest Ross see something in his eyes he couldn't take back. But Ross just curled his fingers more firmly under George's jaw, and put his other hand on George's shoulder, looking at him searchingly. George swallowed, willing his expression, his body to behave. But he could not stop the hot flush rising into his pale cheeks or the thudding of his heart or the hitch of his breath.

Ross frowned a little, and let him go.

"Sorry George. Too much ale. Let us go in."

George followed him, a rush of shame flooding through him. He was done for. Ross must have seen something in him, the horrible thing perhaps, and was disgusted by him. He was disgusted with himself. Why could he never prevent himself from lusting?

But Ross didn’t seem the slightest bit angry or revolted with him when they parted at the top of the stairs.

“I hope you’ll come with us again sometime George,” he said, clapping George on the shoulder. “And let me know if Harry gives you any trouble.”

“Thank you Ross,” said George, his relief manifesting in a huge grin. Ross grinned back. “See you in Latin,” he said, and disappeared into the dark of the corridor.


	2. Six of the best

Life became easier for George after that.

It was not that Ross singled him out especially - not during school hours at least. But when Ross and his friends were hogging the fireside tables in the common room to play cards, Ross would kick out a chair and ask George to join in. At first there were a few comments, but Ross always quashed any mutterings about ‘trade’ or ‘upstarts’ and slowly, they stopped being made at all. If not quite accepted, he was tolerated.

It was just as well, because George had a talent for cards and did not hesitate to take his schoolfellow’s money. He had always loved the gaming table even as a child, and on nights when his father and uncle had had local men to the house to play cards, he had crept into the room and watched with rapt attention. Once he turned thirteen, his father allowed him to sit up for these nights of gaming and gambling, and would roar with laughter at George’s ruthlessness at the table. The only time George felt assured of his father’s affection was when he was making some rival merchant sweat over a hand of Faro. He loved the thrill of a win and the jubilation of his father and uncle; the clink of coins being pushed across the table to him was merely the cherry on the cake.

At school though, the stakes were rarely high. Ross would occasionally protest when George had thoroughly trounced someone and taken their last pennies, and he and George would argue, but Francis would say “Leave him. He wins fair and square.” and Ross would subside.

Ross continued to be a complete and utter distraction to George. George had never met anyone like him. He never felt happier than when he was with him, yet at the same time more confused and distressed. But if Ross suspected that George thought that way about him, he gave no hint, and was as hail-fellow-well-met with him as he was to everyone else. 

George favourite moments were at breakfast, when Ross would clatter in late and half asleep, Francis at his heels, and make a beeline for George. George would treasure those times, gloating over them inwardly, even though a small voice at the back of his mind wondered if perhaps it was only because no one else ever wanted to sit with him, so there was plenty room and extra food. 

“Tom Wellesley is to be expelled,” Francis told them one morning at the beginning of summer, between large mouthfuls of porridge. 

“Tom?” George only knew him as a quiet, studious boy, with a solemn round face, who excelled at science.

“What for?” Ross asked, buttering bread, and leaning casually over George to grab the marmalade, making George’s heart give a lurch as ever.

“Oh what do you think? Buggering Harry Pearson of course. Harry’s to go too. Pair of bloody idiots.”

George choked on his tea then. He shared a room with Harry Pearson. How could he have…? He coughed violently and Ross thumped him on the back.

“Why idiots?” George managed at last, wiping away tears.

“Because imagine getting caught! Good god haven’t we all done it at one time or another, but you don’t have to make such a song and dance about it as those two did. Always mooning around after one another. You couldn’t open a cupboard without the pair of them tumbling out of it.” Francis laughed and so did Ross. George felt hot all over at the thought.

“What do you mean Francis?” he asked, his gaze firmly fixed on the piece of bread he was holding.

“Don’t you know what buggering is?”

“Yes, of course I...That isn’t what I meant. Do...does everyone do it?”

“Well I expect _you_ haven’t George, you’ve not been imprisoned here all your life, “ said Ross. “What did you do before you came to school, pester the housemaids?”

“I preferred the kitchen maids,” said George, “they’d make you a snack afterwards.”

Ross gave a shout of laughter and Francis grinned. George felt a brief moment of pride that he’d made such a shocking joke. But he could not let go of the conversation.

“But really. You have both...with who did you…?”

“A gentleman never tells, George,” said Francis. “And anyway, it’s just to get rid of your animal spirits. It means nothing. It’s when you start lovering all over the place like Tom and Harry that it’s wrong. Like a pair of women. They would _kiss_ each other for heaven's sake.”

George looked at Ross again who shrugged and grinned. “You do all sorts of things here you wouldn’t do in the real world,” he said. “Like Latin verbs. Or eating tapioca pudding. It’s just…school.”

“Speak for yourself Ross,” said Francis, jabbing him with an elbow. “But you might want to look at your technique if you think having it off feels the same as eating tapioca pudding.” In answer, Ross grabbed Francis and tried to push his face into the marmalade.

George left them to their scuffle, his head in a whirl. His roommate Harry to be expelled for being with a boy. His mind raced onwards. Ross and Francis, all but admitting they had been with boys as well. With each other? No, surely not. George’s pulse quickened at this thought, but dismissed it as hard as he could. 

But this was astounding. Boys having feelings for other boys, and going on all around him, apparently. So, perhaps, his feelings were just animal spirits. He could he be just like the others, and...

A large lump of marmalade splattered against his face. Looking up he saw Ross’s face alight with mischief, so he dug an elbow into his side in retaliation. 

“Poldark and Poldark! WILL you sit up and behave like the civilised English gentlemen you supposedly are, and not a pair of damned heathens. Report to me after breakfast, three on each hand,” roared Professor Brown from the staff table. “ _And_ you, Warleggan! You’re no better.”

“Yes, sir,” said George.

After breakfast Ross and a rather chastened Francis took him to Professor Brown’s study. 

George had never been caned before. It couldn’t be worse than one of Uncle Cary’s beatings, where he’d leather him with a belt in rage and leave him slumped and sobbing in a corner of his bedroom. This sounded controlled and ordered. 

“Do we all go in at once?” he whispered. 

“No,” said Francis, “One at a time. Brown is a good sort, really, he doesn’t make you suffer in front of your school fellows. Some people cry you know, and I even heard of one who fainted.”

George hoped with all his heart and soul that he would not join the school legends as ‘the one who fainted.’

“Here,” said Ross just as George lifted a hand to knock on Professor Brown’s door. He thrust a handkerchief at George. “Best wipe the rest of that marmalade off your face and look as smart as you can. Strangely Brown has such a _thing_ about tidiness.”

George looked at the handkerchief, which was as cared for as the rest of Ross’s clothing ever was. “I think my face might look even worse if I used that,” he said mildly. Francis gave a snort. Ross smiled and rolled his eyes. “Have it your way then.” 

George pulled his own immaculate handkerchief from a pocket and wiped at his face with it. As he was doing so, the door of the study was thrown open and Professor Brown leaned around the door jamb. 

“Right,” he said gruffly. “I’ll start with a Poldark. You.” He took Francis by the shoulder and yanked him inside. The door banged shut again. 

“If you are worried about being tidy,” whispered George to Ross, “Then your waistcoat is buttoned up all wrong. And you have a quantity of butter in your hair.”

“Where?”

“Here, look…”

“I can’t...can you get it for me?”

Ross turned to George, unfastening his waistcoat as he spoke and stepping closer. George swallowed. 

“Shall I wait until…”

“Just mop me up, Brown will be finished with Francis any moment. Please.”

George went on tip-toe and nervously dabbed at Ross’s hair. He was painfully aware of Ross straightening his clothes and he could not help but glance downwards. Under the waistcoat his shirt was barely fastened at all, and he saw glimpses of golden skin and taut muscle, and the curve of his collarbone. Why would a collarbone send him reeling for heaven's sake? Ross huffed an impatient breath against George’s neck and George could trust himself no longer. He scrubbed the handkerchief once more on Ross’s head and stepped back in a rush. 

“There. That will have to…”

The door flew open again and a pink cheeked Francis was shoved out, cradling his hands under his armpits. 

“Warleggan. Inside.” Professor Brown turned and strode back into the study.

“You’re in luck” whispered Francis. “He’s in quite a good mood. He did them fast as you like, no waiting between strokes, and all on the same spot.”

George nodded and went inside. 

Professor Brown was waiting for him, leaning against his desk, the switch already in his hand.

“This is a first for you, Warleggan,” he said. 

“Yes, sir.” said George, fixing his eyes on the far wall. 

“I must say I’m surprised. I thought, with your background…Well. I thought I would be seeing you more often in these circumstances. But your behaviour has been exemplary, till now.”

He came over to George then. “Lift your hand.” George did. “Palm upward, please.”

He brought the switch down then, hard and without warning. George gasped and swayed at the harsh sting of pain, snatching his hand away. 

“Keep your hand up!” the Professor barked. George blinked and uncurled his hand, holding it up again. 

“If you keep your hand still, I can do this more quickly,” Professor Brown said, not unkindly. He brought the switch down again. And a third time. It was done. 

“The other if you please.” George took a deep breath and held up his other hand. The pain had begun in the first hand now as all the blood rushed to the wound, and he bit down on his lip to stop from crying out. In quick succession Professor Brown laid on three strokes to the second hand, and it was over. Glancing down at them, he could not believe his hands weren’t bleeding. He tucked them under his armpits as Francis had done. 

“I do not wish to see you in here again, Warleggan,” Professor Brown said. “You have been a credit to your family until now, so do not let yourself down. Now go and send the remaining blasted Poldark in here. Bane of my life.”

George’s hands were so painful now that he fumbled with the catch of the door, but wrenched it open at last and revealed Ross, pacing in the corridor. Ross raised his eyebrows at George and George nodded. Ross gave him a squeeze on the arm, and disappeared into the study. 

George ran quickly to his room to change into a waistcoat without stains on it, and to see if he could cool his burning hands in the basin on the washstand. 

Harry was there, lying face down on his bed. 

George paused at the door, wondering if he should disappear again. Neither of them should really have been in the room at all at that time of day. Was Harry crying? He couldn’t tell. Perhaps he would just…

“George?”

Harry lifted his head. 

“Yes.”

“I suppose you’ve heard then.”

George nodded. 

Harry rolled over and sat up gingerly. He wasn’t crying, but his thin freckled face showed signs that he had been. 

“Are you hurt?”

“Six of the best on the backside from the Headmaster. Breeches down.” He gave a hollow laugh and shook his head. “You’d think when they are punishing a fellow for being a catamite, they wouldn’t ask him to strip and bend over.”

“I just had three on each hand,” said George. 

“Who was it?”

“Brown.”

Harry nodded. “He’s fair. He’s fast as you like, doesn’t mess about. What did you do?”

“Francis and Ross were fighting at breakfast, and I was...there.”

“Let’s see,” said Harry, and George walked over and held his hands out. 

“Skin isn’t broken. Let me give you some of this, my mother made it for me.” Harry reached over and picked up a small pot of ointment from the washstand. 

“Harry…” George began. 

“Oh, don’t worry. I shall let you put it on yourself, I shan’t touch you,” said Harry quickly. 

“No, that’s not-” George sat down suddenly on the bed next to Harry and held his hands up to him. “I wanted to ask. About Tom.”

“What about it?” said Harry, fiddling with the lid of the ointment. 

George took a breath. 

“Was this what Ross threatened to tell on you about? That night I went to the tavern with him?”

“What? Oh, no. He was talking of something else. Ross isn’t the sort to throw a fellow to the wolves.” George felt relieved. They fell into silence again. 

But George could not hold his tongue.

“Why did you do it? You and Tom?”

Harry shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on George’s hands. He took some of the ointment and began to rub it on to the raised welts on George’s palms, making George wince. 

“Sorry. It’ll sting a bit.”

George tried again. “The others said that you and Tom were always together. That you did it a lot.”

“Oh they did, did they. Hypocrites,” said Harry bitterly. “ _They_ all do it. Everyone does. They think if you don’t kiss each other it doesn’t count, but it does.”

He began on George’s other hand, his face a picture of misery. 

“Did you...do you like him very much, Harry?”

Harry paused, holding both of George’s hands, and looked at him at last. 

“I like him better than anyone I ever met. And now I shan’t be allowed to see him ever again and it feels like I could die from it.” He clenched his mouth tight and looked at George defiantly. 

“I know how it is,” George said. “I have felt that too.” 

George remembered the night his father had called him into his study to tell him that his tutor was to be sent away. Of course, his tutor had never shown any interest in George beyond his lessons; but he had been kind, and listened to him, and never lost his temper or beat him. George had been utterly infatuated. He could not imagine how dreadful he would have felt if his feelings had been returned. Or, even worse, if he and Ross had been caught, like Harry and Tom had been. He went pink at the thought. 

He wished he could think of a way to convey to Harry just now much he understood.

“We are the same, you and I,” he said at last, awkwardly. 

Harry seemed to understand, and gave a half smile. “That’s good to hear,” he said quietly. “It is lonely being the only one.” He paused. “Be careful, then. More careful than I was, at least.”

George nodded. “I am sorry this has happened to you.”

“That’s alright. You’d better go.”

George got up. He held up his hands. 

“Thank you.”

“I shall leave the ointment for you, I won’t need it. At least, I expect I shall when my father gets hold of me, but my mother keeps some at home. I’m to go today so...I’ll say goodbye now.”

“Well. Goodbye then. We could write, if you like,” said George. 

Harry nodded. “I shall, if I’m allowed.” He smiled, properly this time. “It is nine o’clock George, Professor Simpson will string you up if you don’t hurry.”

George gave a startled exclamation and left the room at a run. 

In the common room after lunch, George discovered his punishment had unexpectedly made him a source of interest. A group gathered around him as he came in. 

“Bad luck Warleggan,” said John Taylor, a boy who had never spoken to him before. “Strangely Brown must have been in a fouler this morning to give you the strap just for horsing around. Was he awful?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s have a look,” John said eagerly and George held out his hands. A concerted ‘Ohhhh,’ broke out among the boys and they began chattering excitedly. 

“Look at that! All three in the exact same spot.”

“That must’ve stung a bit, Warleggan.”

“Oh well, it wasn’t so bad.”

“Did you get dizzy after the first lot? I always get the spins when I have to change hands.”

“Oh he wouldn’t have got dizzy, looks too fast for that, was he quick George?”

“Brown’s all right. Wiggins is the worst. I almost swooned from the pain last time. He takes such an age between strokes, the sadist.”

“What did you get six from Wiggins for?”

“Kicking Bill Westland up the arse in Science. Was worth it though.”

Schoolboys, George thought, were unfathomable creatures. If he’d known that all he’d needed to do to be accepted wholeheartedly was to get a beating from one of the schoolmasters, he’d have done it months ago. 

“You like cards, George, don’t you?” said John eagerly. “We’ve a game planned against the prefects tonight, after lights out. Trelawny says we can use his room. Do come.”

“William Trelawny?” said George. 

“Yes. He’s terribly good at cards, but so are you. What a lark if you were to beat him!”

“Perhaps then. Ross, are you going?” George said, as Ross wandered past the little group. 

“I planned to,” he said. 

“Good, then that is settled,” said John. “After lights out, and don’t fall asleep!”

The rest of the day dragged interminably after that. There was an undercurrent of excitement among the boys who planned to go to the card game, and the schoolmasters sensed it and set them much more prep than usual to try and subdue them. But the never-ending day did draw to a close at last, and the boys headed to their rooms in a state of stifled anticipation. 

After lights out, George waited until he heard some other footsteps in the corridor outside his room before emerging. He did not fancy turning up at William Trelawny’s door alone, even though he had paid George not the slightest attention since their fight. 

But John and Bill were ahead of him, so he hurried along and joined them. 

“Oh good, you are here,” whispered John. He led them along the hallway and up a small flight of stairs to where the prefect’s rooms were. George could see why this room had been fixed on for the game - it was the furthest point from the schoolmasters’ quarters, and with no servant bedrooms above it. 

William looked up as they entered, and fixed his pale blue eyes upon George. He gave him a barely perceptible nod, then turned his head away.

More boys shuffled into the room until there were around ten of them seated around the table. Ross was last to arrive. 

“No Francis?” someone asked. 

“He still owes me from last time,” William drawled. “He’d do well to stay away until he pays me.”

Ross ignored William and sat down. William took out two decks of cards and the boys began a fast and furious game of Twelves. 

George loved this game; it was tricky and involved bluffing, and his naturally solemn face and innocent air meant he quite often swept the table. Of course a lot of his schoolfellows were wise to him now, but the older boys did not really know him. As George won the third hand in a row, he saw Ross grin behind a hand and shake his head at him. Emboldened by Ross’s amusement, he became more ruthless. 

Bill Westland was losing and getting reckless, raising his bets and making wild bluffs. George saw his opportunity to clean him out. He coolly matched him bet for bet, giving nothing away. Another hand was dealt and George saw he had an ace-king in the pocket. He bluffed, biting his lip and frowning. Bill played his hand and George, permitting himself a small smile, cleaned up. 

“Oh!”

“That’s hard luck, Bill.”

Bill went a little green and pushed the money towards George, who nodded but said nothing. Ross frowned and put a hand on Bill’s arm. Bill covered his eyes briefly, then got up and went to the window. 

“I think you’ve won enough, Warleggan,” said William. “You can be Bank. With your background you must have a talent for counting up small trifles of money.”

George said nothing to this, but took his seat by the ‘bank’ and dealt the cards. 

“Place your coppers, lads,” said Ross, and they were off. 

This time though, William began to lose. William’s hooded eyes revealed little, but after the first two hands went against him, his jaw began to clench. George dealt again. The bets were placed. William looked at his hand and shifted in his seat. 

“I fold,” said one of William’s friends. “I too,” said John. Ross remained silent. William played his hand with a half smirk. Ross gave a grin and played his too. 

“Ohh! Hard luck, Trelawny.” 

“Play again, double or nothing,” William said coldly. George shuffled the pack and dealt again. 

“I fold,” said Ross. So did three of the others. John chewed his lip nervously. William drummed his fingers on his cards then laid them down. John gave a whoop and played his hand. 

“Winner takes all,” said George. 

William smashed his fist down on the table. 

“I will not have this any more, the Bank is cheating me! I should have known we could not trust him.”

“I am certainly not,” said George, “You are losing by your own poor judgement.”

There were a couple of titters at this, and William lost his temper entirely. 

“You must have some cards hidden about your person, and you are ruining me on purpose. Prove me wrong, then! Empty your pockets!” 

George stood up. “No I won’t. I did not cheat you, and I will not be treated as a thief.”

“Liar!”

“Come on Warleggan, just do it so it can be settled,” said one of the prefects. 

George shook his head. “I refuse.”

William jerked his head at a couple of his friends, who stood up and took hold of George. Ross stood up then too, as did John. “Leave him go, he is no cheat!”

“Let me be, I will do it,” said George, struggling. They released him. Looking William directly in the eye, he emptied all his pockets. Handkerchief, coins, a pocket knife. He pulled his pockets inside out and showed William the lining. “Satisfied?” he said, as insolently as he could. Someone laughed again. 

William thrust his chair back in a rage. “Then you have hidden them somewhere else - where have you concealed them?” With that he threw the table crashing over, sending cards, money and glasses flying. 

“William you fool,” hissed one of his friends. “The Headmaster will be on us any moment!”

At that the boys began to scatter, grabbing what coins they could and disappearing into the dark of the hallways. George stood frozen to the spot in shock and Ross put a hand on his back and pushed him out ahead of him. 

“My god, what a night,” Ross said as they left, hurrying towards their rooms. They crept along the upper corridor. “William is still the world’s worst loser. Nothing changes. You should have gone easier on Bill though.”

“How so?”

“You surely did not need to take everything he had.”

“If he bet what he could not spare, then he deserved to lose it,” said George, echoing words his father had said many times. “I did not beggar him.”

“You can be very mercenary, George,” said Ross.

“Why must you always attribute the worst intentions to me, Ross?” said George. He felt stung. 

“ I did not mean that. But when there is money at stake, you press your advantage very hard.”

“I wish you would explain the nuances of gentlemanly behaviour to me then, as clearly I have failed to learn them, coming from a family of blacksmiths,” said George. First he’d been called a cheat and a liar, and now he was accused of being unsportsmanlike. It was too bad. 

“George, I meant nothing of the sort. I hope I have never given you any reason to think I think less of you for your grandfather’s trade,” Ross spoke earnestly. “If anything I admire your family’s aspiration.”

“We have more than aspiration, which you will find out if you are ever in need of help from my family’s bank,” said George nastily, then regretted it. Ross looked at him in surprise. 

“Ross. I didn’t mean to...I am tired.” He turned to open the door of his room. 

Ross took hold of his arm and turned George around to face him. “I know. It is late. Let us forget all this, and say goodnight.” 

George’s anger melted away and was replaced instantly with his usual painful confusion. Here was Ross; living, breathing Ross at the door of his room, with a hand on his arm, in the dark and not another soul around. 

He felt bone weary. Was this to be his life, day in, day out? Feeling things he should not, battling himself. Struggling against his urges like a fly trapped in a spider web. How long before he lost the fight? He could not fool himself. This was more than the ‘animal spirits’ Francis had spoken of. 

With a Herculean effort he shrugged Ross’s arm off. “Good night,” he said abruptly and shut his door firmly in Ross’s face. 

In the safety of his room, he leaned against the door, and pressed his cheek against the polished wood, his legs shaking. At least he had mastered himself this time. 

Ross did not leave straight away; he stood on the other side of the door for a few moments more. George closed his hand around the door handle, his heart thudding. Perhaps, just perhaps, he should... But just as he began to twist the handle he heard the soft sound of Ross’s footsteps heading off down the hall. 

George lay on his bed, too tired to even undress. Sleep would not come quickly that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This card game is completely made up and probably makes no sense - it's just a mash-up of about three or four different games. Just in case you care!
> 
> Also the nickname 'Strangely Brown' is pinched from Blackadder.
> 
> 29/07/15 Sorry for lack of update, I was on holiday. But next chapter is almost done!


	3. It's Just Not Cricket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that the rating of this fic has changed.

George had woke up with an erection again. 

The pamphlets they had all been given at the beginning of the school year - “the Heinous Sin of self-Pollution, And All Its Frightful Consequences” - were quite clear: self abuse put him at risk of sending himself blind, or mad or stupid. But he could not help himself. If he ever tried not to do it for a few days he had feverish dreams anyway, and leaked all over the sheets.

He was sure the other boys all did it too, and sometimes together, from the snatches of conversation he’d overheard. He wondered if he’d ever be strong enough to stop doing it, and save his sight and sanity. Certainly since Ross had taken his arm in the dark of the corridor a week ago, George’s body had fought any attempt he made to restrain himself. 

He could not stop thinking about Ross’s hand on him, turning him around. How he could have, perhaps...if he had kept his temper. Something might have...if only. If only he had not been angry. 

It was early and he did not yet have to get up, so he tugged his sheets down below his waist, and began to stroke himself. Slowly and lazily at first, almost teasing himself, sweeping his thumb across the head of his cock, gasping at how sensitive it felt, watching himself getting harder and wetter. He let his head fall back, eyes closed. Ross was standing in front of him, saying ‘let me see you George,’ and tilting up his chin with his hand. And then, instead of walking away, he was pushing George into the dark of the stable, slamming him against the stone wall - _yes_ \- tearing at his clothes. 

George moved his hand faster and harder, the muscles in his stomach and legs tensing.

Ross had his hands on him in the dark of the stable, murmuring filthy, amazing things in his ear about how he was going to touch him - _oh_ \- and stroke him, and how he was going to make him moan. He had his hand around George’s cock now, his other hand on George’s hip, keeping him still and rammed against the wall. He kept stroking, harder now, relentless, biting at George’s mouth, telling him how good he felt - _oh_ \- how hard, _\- oh god, oh -_ how, how...

George rolled over and came into his sheets, his moans smothered by his pillow. He didn’t ever last more than a minute when he imagined Ross’s hands on him, but the intensity always surprised him. 

He rolled back over and breathed out gustily. He felt wonderful for a moment, loose limbed, content. Then the guilt began. 

He did the tests he always did after he’d abused himself. Yes, he could still read the spine of his French grammar book from across the room quite clearly. And he could remember all the kings of England from Ethelred the Unready to George the Third. So not blind or stupid. He did not know how to test himself against madness though, which always worried him. Wasn’t it something about hair on the palm of your hand?

The bell rang for breakfast then. 

George was late, which meant he had to squeeze onto a table next to Bill Westland instead of getting to sit by Ross and Francis. He had stopped to try and clean his sheets a little, for the activities of that morning had not left them in a pretty state. At least the housemaids here were discrete and didn’t tease him or get annoyed about it, like Peggy at home did. He supposed that in a boys’ school the maids were no longer surprised by it at all. 

Bill was out of sorts and still angry with George after the card game a week ago, and was not pleased that George had squeezed in beside him. They nudged each other back and forth for a bit, till Bill managed to shove George’s elbow hard enough that his tea slopped into his lap. 

“Stop it!” George hissed, keeping one eye on Professor Brown and frantically mopping at himself. 

“Let’s call it even, shall we?” said Bill, who had cheered up immensely. “Alright,” George agreed. 

“William was beastly unfair to you, you know,” said Bill companionable now he’d got some revenge. “I didn’t mind at the time because I was furious with you. But you did well standing up to him.”

“I did not stand up to him much. I emptied my pockets just as he told me to.”

“Yes but you got in that jab about his poor judgement - that would have blistered his kidneys alright.”

George couldn’t help but smile. Bill used the most inexplicable expressions sometimes. 

“You should watch out for him though, he’s a devil when he’s roused. He might go for you.”

Ross said I should just thump him back.”

“Ross is not most people. I don’t think he’s ever been afraid of anything in his life. The rest of us avoid William like the plague when he’s in this mood, believe me.”

George nodded. Of course. He tried to imagine what it must feel like not to be afraid. He was afraid of almost everything, including himself. But Ross took everything head on, like a battering ram, with utter confidence that it would all be alright. George had a rush of feeling, of such intense admiration for his friend that he felt himself smiling for no reason. 

It was Games after breakfast; cricket today which George loathed and was hopeless at. He usually tried to go out to field as far away from the pitch as possible (or Deep Backward, as Francis had once explained), and would pray that no one sent a ball anywhere near him. Luckily the games master barely noticed his existence, not being one of the sporty pupils, so he was almost free to do as he pleased. 

Ross, usually in the thick of things, was striding along the edge of the sports field towards George. George held his breath. It was another hot day and the boys were playing in their shirt sleeves. Ross being Ross had his shirt done up wrong and half unfastened and as he ran his hands through his wild hair, George caught a glimpse of taut, brown stomach. And - George’s heart stuttered - _hair,_ running up from Ross’s waistband to his chest. God. George’s body was so boyish in comparison. His mouth dried and he raised his eyes to heaven to stop himself staring. 

“ _George!_ Are you struck deaf? I’ve been calling you all across the field.”

“I did not hear you,” George said, keeping his eyes skywards as Ross reached him and clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Are you stargazing?” said Ross. 

“N-no. Just. Practicing French verbs. In my head,” George said. He stole a look at Ross from under his lashes. Ross was tucking his shirt in a little, thank the heavens. 

“By God, it is hot today. I’d give anything to be at home and off for a dip in the bay, wouldn’t you?”

“I have never sea-bathed. My father does not permit it.” His father had told him that he was not to shame the family by joining in with the miners’ children, naked as skinned rabbits, splashing and yelling in the surf. 

“You shall come and visit me when school breaks up,” Ross was saying. “And I’ll teach you to swim. Hang your father!”

George mopped at his hot face with a sleeve and did not reply. Ross did the same, then sat down in the long grass with an ‘Oof,” and disappeared from sight. 

“Are you hiding from someone?” George said, peering over the grass at him. 

“Francis and I were at the tavern last night and I need to lie down. We did not get back till 5 o’ clock this morning.” Ross lay back, arms behind his head. “Sorry we didn’t ask you - we tried but Professor Brown was hanging about your corridor like a bad smell.”

“Where is Francis?” 

“Pretending he has a tooth-ache. He’ll be having a lovely lie down, with Matron soothing him and feeding him soup, the devil.” 

George snorted and looked over at the match. There was a flurry of activity around the wicket, but George had no idea why or if he was supposed to be doing something. He wished he could lie in the cool grass with Ross. 

The games master was shouting at John over something, red in the face, and John kicked the ground, looking truculent, and sending up a cloud of dust. George swatted at a fly which was bothering him, and huffed his sweaty hair up off his brow. What a bore this was. 

A boy called Edward bowled and John swung at it wildly, knocking the games master’s hat off, which sent him off into another rage, and play stopped again. 

“What is happening?” said Ross, aware of the yelling but too lazy to open his eyes or sit up.

“What a ridiculous question to ask about one of our cricket matches,” George said shoving his hands in his pockets. “The answer is nothing, of course.” 

Ross chuckled. “What’s Sedley so aerated about then?”

“John has ‘most knocked the head off his shoulders instead of the ball. Why don’t you get up and take a look for yourself?”

Ross opened one eye lazily, grinned at him, and closed it again. “Don’t talk to me George or he will guess I am down here. And then I will be forced to beat you. And stop making me laugh it hurts my head.” 

Edward bowled again, and this time John made contact with the ball. It shied off towards George, curving through the blue sky. Christ. He readied himself to attempt to catch it. Here it comes, here it…

Another, much keener fielder made a wild leap and caught it mid-flight. George stepped back with relief, and fell flat over Ross. 

“George! _God!_ ” Ross squirmed underneath George’s weight.

“Sorry! Oh, sorry, I-” George half rolled off Ross, tried to get up but clumsily managed to kneel in the hem of his own shirt and collapsed again. Ross began to laugh and so did George, their legs tangled together. 

Suddenly they heard the games master’s voice get closer. Ross shot out an arm and held George still on the ground next to him, his eyes wide. George blinked back at him. 

“Boys! We need someone back here. Why have we no Outfielders? No sense of the game, any of you. No sense at all. Why do I…” The Professor’s voice began to fade again.

George lay still for a moment more. Ross’s eyes, he noticed, were not just dark brown, but flecked with cinnamon. He could see where he’d missed a bit, shaving, just under the fullness of his bottom lip. George’s blood thudded in his ears. They were too close, he felt strange, it was too...

 _I’m in love with him_ , George realised. That’s what is wrong with me. 

The realisation brought with it a rush of euphoria. He was in love and it felt like being drunk, on wine. He felt brimful of laughter and joy because look, look at this person. This perfect person who has two buttons missing from his shirt, who owes me fourteen shillings from Twelves and who somehow has an inkstain on the edge of his jaw. Who is not afraid of anything, and who thinks I am an interesting fellow. Who laughs with me and teases me and steals my share of roast potatoes at Sunday lunch. Who has been lying at my feet because he’s tired after staying up all night gambling and drinking ale and smoking. 

But as the euphoria faded a coldness followed. Because he could never, never tell and it could never come to anything at all. He would have to carry this secret with him, and keep it quiet and locked up and safe with the other more terrible one, where it would get tainted and corrupted by his awful perversion. He caught his breath as this thought shivered across his soul. 

“George, he’s gone.” Ross was still looking at him. “What is it? I didn’t mean it about the beating you know. No need to look like that.”

George managed a small smile and sat up, drawing his legs away from Ross. “Be quiet you idiot or you’ll be discovered. And I’m not going to talk to you any more so stop bothering me.”

He scrambled to his feet and deliberately moved a few steps away from where Ross lay. He glanced over his shoulder, but Ross had closed his eyes again. He looked over to the others and John waved him over. The innings or whatever it was called must be done with, even though nothing had happened at all. He would never understand this game. 

After an eternity the bell for the end of the lesson rang, and the boys flooded inside to get out of the heat. 

George caught sight of himself in the glass in the downstairs entrance hall as he rushed to change from his cricket whites, and almost didn’t recognise himself. He had grown a little but it was not just that; his usually deathly pale skin had tanned with all the riding and tennis and cricket he’d been forced to do. He looked stronger too; his shoulders seemed broader, and he’d filled out in a pleasing way with the stodgy food they were fed three times a day.

He was sure that once back at home he’d soon return to looking like the small, pale city mouse he’d arrived as. His father and uncle certainly didn’t encourage outdoor pursuits or sports. But for now he would enjoy this feeling of health. 

“What a couple of beauties eh?” said Bill Westland, appearing behind him in the mirror and wrapping an arm around George’s neck, “By God what stuff Gainsborough would make of these phizogs.” He pulled a grotesque face. 

“Get off Westland you beast,” George struggled, laughing, “And let me away - you’re enough to put a fellow off his dinner.”

Bill ignored him and dragged George upstairs, whooping, while George struggled and elbowed him in the ribs and kicked him in the shins. By some miracle no schoolmaster caught them - it was strictly forbidden to run, and certainly to fight, in the entrance hall in case of visiting parents - and George was able to shake Bill off and change in time for French.

George’s head was thoroughly in the clouds for the rest of the day. He could not have told anyone which lessons he’d had, or what anyone had said to him. All he could think of was the discovery he’d made that morning. That he was in love. That he was really this stupid, this ridiculous. And yet it felt wonderful. 

George was so distracted that he was kept back after English to do lines for inattention. Fifty lines of Paradise Lost (“The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.”), took him much longer than it should have. As a consequence he missed most of dinner, but even when he arrived he dawdled over his meal, not talking to anyone - not that they noticed - and left most of the food on his plate to congeal. 

The eagle-eyed Cook kept him back in the dining room after the other boys had all filed out, to finish everything on his plate.

"A small creature like yourself shouldn't be skimping on his meals," she said, and dolloped even more stew onto his plate. "Finish that up young sir."

She reminded him of his grandmother, so he smiled at her and ate up. She chatted to him as she cleared the dining room, and the sound of her familiar accent and the way she bustled around was such a comfort that he lingered. It was pleasant not to have to watch his accent or his manners for once, and just eat and talk as he had in the kitchen at his grandparents, using the end of the bread to mop up his plate. 

Afterwards he walked back towards the common room along the empty corridor, relishing the peace. He paused to look out of the window, and leant his forehead against a pane to see outside better through the aged glass. He daydreamed a little, about Ross and himself grown up and able to run their affairs as they wished. George would not marry, of course. Could not, now, while he loved someone else. He would live in town and Ross could visit as he wished, as a friend. He could have his own rooms, perhaps. The Warleggan’s had enough room. They could...

He started at the sound of a heavy footfall. William Trelawny rounded the corner, all 6 foot 2 of him.

George was utterly frozen. There was no other way out and no one else within ear shot.

He forced himself to look William in the eye.

"Don't stare at me you little shit," William said, a disgusted look upon his face. George clenched his fists by his side. He was determined to hit him back, this time, if he tried anything.

William squared up to him. “Cheat,” he spat. Despite himself, George took a small step back. 

“I didn’t suppose someone like you would have any honour,” William continued, “You are too ignorant to understand such things. But you owe me my money back.”

George shook his head, anger sparking in his eyes. 

“I did not cheat, and you shall not have it. Ross told you...”

“You are pathetic, do you know that?” William interrupted him. “Sucking up to the Poldarks in the hope they give you some standing. Everyone laughs at you, you know.”

“That’s...that’s a lie.”

“What’s a lie? That you are a laughing stock?”

“They are my friends.”

“People like you do not befriend people from families like theirs, Warleggan. I don’t know who you think you are, but to most of us, you are no more than a mannerless sniveling upstart. My father thinks…”

“Well, perhaps your father should spend less time thinking of me, and more time thinking about his debts to Warleggan’s Bank,” said George before he could stop himself, and felt a jolt of satisfaction as he saw the jab hit home.

William went white with anger. “What,” he ground out, “did you just say to me, you little _fucking_ …”

George took a deep breath. He would fight him this time, he would.

But William overpowered him instantly. Grabbing George by the throat he threw him against a wall, knocking the wind out of him. Then letting him go, he knocked him to the ground with a punch to the mouth. George tried desperately to get up but he could only pull himself to his hands and knees, his lungs screaming for air. Blood from his lip spilled hot and salty into his mouth and dripped onto the floor. 

Then George heard a shout and footsteps thudding towards him. William yelled something and disappeared from his eyeline. Trembling, he raised his head. Ross. It was Ross.

"What did I fucking tell you, Trelawny?" he was saying, dark fire in his eyes. 

“Leave us, Poldark, this isn’t anything to do with you!” He lunged for George again but Ross was too quick for him. He drew back a fist and smashed William's nose. William backed away quickly. Blood began to pour down his shirtfront. He lifted his hands to his face to try to stem the flow.

“For God’s...look what you have done you savage!” William staggered away from them. “My God…” 

“I’d run for it now, unless you want more,” said Ross, his face flushed and his knuckles bleeding. William shoved at him once, then turned and disappeared. 

George was on his feet by then, and Ross dragged him back into the empty dining room by his arm. They faced each other, both shaking with adrenaline.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and George shook his head. He could not speak. If he opened his mouth even for a second he would start to cry and then Ross would despise him. Why must he always cry after being hit? Even at his age? His uncle had always sneered at him after a beating about his 'pitiful yowling'. He could not do it before Ross. He tried to take a couple of deep breaths.

"George - did he hurt you badly? I can see your lip, but did he do harm to you somewhere else?" Ross held George's upper arms and looked him over. 

George shook his head again, but still could not speak.

"Here," said Ross, releasing George’s arms and fishing out his usual grubby pocket handkerchief, "Let me..."

He wiped gently at George's bottom lip. George flinched away in surprise.

"Sorry," said Ross, taking his hand away, " I was only trying to..."

"No!" George managed. "No. I did not mean to...You did nothing..." He took the handkerchief from Ross and dabbed again at his mouth. "Thank you." His throat tightened again with tears. Oh please, please let him contain them. If only Ross would look away for a moment so he could compose himself. But Ross's dark gaze had not left his face.

"George, if you feel...there is no need for shame." Ross leant forward and put a hand on George's shoulder. "William is probably crying just now into his pillow over his poor flattened nose. He always has been a terrible crier. When we were very young he would bawl if he didn't get all his sums right, and fling himself to the ground, kicking his heels."

George let out a shaky laugh at that image and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Thank you. Again. When he attacked me I could not...I was useless. As ever."

"No. This is not..." Ross pressed his lips together, as if to contain rage. He took a breath. "You did nothing wrong. It is William who should be ashamed of his cruelty. And I am going to catch up with him, believe me."

"No! Please do not. It is not your argument. I can keep away from him, and it was I who angered him in the first place."

"George, you cannot just allow yourself to be beaten black and blue whenever that fool has a whim, because you misspoke once! You are his equal and deserve to be treated as such!"

"In your eyes, perhaps."

"Indeed in mine George."

"But not in anyone else's and not even in my own," George said. "Ross, you think differently to anyone I ever..." he stopped. "You must know that my background means..." he shrugged his shoulders, looked at Ross, his eyes begging him to understand. "Some things must be endured."

"Not something unjust like this. I will not stand for it."

George stared at him. Ross was looking back at him, furiously. He was acutely aware of Ross's hand still on his shoulder, burning like a brand through the thin cloth of his shirt. Oh, this was unbearable. If Ross only knew George's true nature - what a disgusting creature he was, how unnatural, how low. How his kindness was only kindling these terrible thoughts.

But Ross was putting his other hand on his shoulder now. George’s breathing quickened as Ross pulled him closer, until his face was inches from George’s.

"I will not let him touch you again,” Ross said quietly. And then George's heart gave a great leap of fright and joy as Ross pressed his mouth to his.

 _Oh, god_. George let out a shuddering breath and grabbed at Ross's waistcoat to steady himself. Ross huffed a laugh against his mouth and kissed him again, sliding his hands down to George's waist. George could barely stand their proximity, the heady scent of Ross, his breath on him, the sweep of his eyelashes, the curve of his lips.

"Ross," he managed, half pulling away, though oh, if Ross did not kiss him again it would kill him.

"Do you wish to stop?" said Ross and dropped his mouth to George's again, this time biting gently on the injured bottom lip, and George moaned and closed his eyes. It was too much, too much. He was utterly overwhelmed. Ross slid his tongue into George's mouth then, and too much became not enough. He bucked against the knee Ross had pushed between his legs, moaning again and kissing Ross back, open mouthed and hungry. Ross pressed his body from hip to chest against him and nothing could feel better than this, nothing at all.

George staggered with the weight of Ross against him and Ross pushed him against one of the long dining tables, pinning him there. George could feel his hardness pressing against his own and found himself whispering "Please, Ross. Please," although he had no idea what he was pleading for. He bucked up against Ross’s grip, pushing himself against the other boy, desperate for friction. Ross gasped and buried his face in George’s neck as they ground against each other. All George could do was clutch at the back of Ross’s shirt as Ross thrust against him, feeling a heat within him build and build until he began to cry out.

“George...” Ross managed to pant into his ear. “Quietly or we’ll be discovered.”

George tried to master himself but moaned again as Ross ground hard and long against him pressing kisses on his neck and jaw. He could not hold back much longer. This was what he had dreamed of so many nights when he’d touched himself in bed, and Ross was so hard against him, so aroused and _wanting_ him. He bit down hard on his lip to contain his cries. Ross began to palm him through his breeches and he could not… _oh god_ , no he was going to…”I’m…” he began, as he felt a tightening in his stomach; and then he was falling over the edge, coming hard and helplessly, the taste of blood in his mouth. 

“My God George,” Ross breathed when George regained his senses. “You-” but George was feeling too vulnerable and exposed to hear what he was going to say, and kissed him to cut off the sentence. Ross kissed him back, less frantically now, but insistently, and George became aware Ross was still hard.

“Do you want me to-”

“Please, just...touch me. Anywhere. Please.”

George began to stroke Ross’s cock through his breeches. He was awkward and clumsy but Ross did not seem to care. He thrust against George’s hand, moaning quietly into George’s mouth until George felt as though he could get hard again from the sound of his voice alone. He wanted to touch him, to feel his skin. He slipped his hand inside the waistband of Ross’s breeches, fumbling at the buttons of his fall, but Ross’s hand scrabbled alongside his, ripping it open and George closed his hand around Ross’s cock at last. “Quick, _oh god_ , be quick,” Ross said, his eyes closing, his face flushed, beautiful. George began to tug him fast, feeling him become impossibly hard, feeling his wetness and his urgency, and then Ross pressed his forehead against George’s, cried out and spent over George’s fist, shuddering. 

They clung together for a moment, steadying themselves, before Ross stepped back and pushed his hair out of his eyes. Saying nothing, George took out his handkerchief and wiped his blood from both their mouths, before using it to wipe his hand and clean Ross. Then he leaned back against the table and looked at Ross wonderingly, as Ross fastened himself up.

“You...kissed me,” said George.

“I did, didn’t I?” Ross said. “Francis would disapprove. But it’s all so much better when you do.”

As if to prove the point, he leaned over and kissed George again, thoroughly, and George’s eyes fluttered closed. 

“I wanted to do this a week ago,” murmured Ross against his mouth, “But then we argued with each other. And I wanted to do it today, at cricket. But I could not tell; you are a closed book George and I could not-”

“No, I wanted to-,” whispered George urgently, slipping his hands up under Ross’s waistcoat and feeling himself harden again. “I have wanted to, for-” 

A clatter from the kitchens brought them back to their senses. They could hear the creak of the servants’ stairs and knew that they had only moments. Straightening themselves they made for the door and crept into the hallway. 

Francis and John were at the end of the hall. 

“I’ve been looking for you, Ross,” Francis said, marching towards them. “What’s all this about William? Did you really smash his face?” 

“Well, it’s…”

“Look, the Headmaster’s on the warpath, you’d better get to prep, both of you. Come on,” Francis said. He took Ross's arm and began to tow him away. He looked back at George. “George your face is a mess, perhaps you should slip away and clean up, or you’ll be in for it.”

“Francis…” George began. 

Ross glanced over his shoulder at him, giving a half smile. 

“See you later, George,” he said casually, and George watched him disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea of the rules of cricket, so I apologise. I should really have got a beta before starting this fic!
> 
> Oh and George's anti-masturbation pamphlet is a real thing, and you can buy it on Amazon still, if you feel the need...


	4. Letters

Letters

George did not see Ross again till their first class the next day. Francis told him at breakfast that the headmaster had indeed caught up with him, and he and William had both been punished that morning for fighting. 

“But I should confess too, should I not?” said George.

“No you idiot,” said Francis, “Then Ross’ll just be in more hot water for lying. Leave it be. Ross won’t care that you got away with it, and William hates you anyway.” He grinned at George. “The way Ross tells it, you weren’t doing much fighting anyway.”

George went cold. 

“What did Ross tell you?”

“Only that by the time he got there, William had already flattened you, and he had to drag you off and get you cleaned up before anyone saw. Oh I’m only teasing,” said Francis, seeing George’s face, “We’ve all been flattened by William at one time or another, he’s such a brute. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed.”

“Ross isn’t angry, then.”

“Ross? I’ve never seen him better pleased with the world. He must have thoroughly enjoyed punching William.”

George smiled. “Yes, I rather think he did.” 

The bell rang. 

Their first lesson was Geography. Ross was near the back of the class with Francis and the rest, while George sat near the front, alone as usual. George could not quite bring himself to turn around and look at him, but it was clear Ross was brimming with mischief that morning. George could hear muttering and scuffling, and laughter at the back of the room. 

The noise and laughter grew and grew until eventually the Geography master whirled around and threw his piece of chalk at the wall above the boys’ heads, where it shattered. 

"POLDARK,” he roared. “No, not you; the other. Stand up. Now come to the front and sit by Warleggan and stop being such a by-our-lady nuisance for once."

George watched, dry mouthed, as Ross strolled to the front of the room and slid onto the bench next to George, not glancing at him once. As soon as their Geography master had turned his attention back to the board, Ross rammed his thigh against George's and kept it there until George thought he would lose his mind with distraction. Hard as he tried to resist, he eventually snatched a glance at Ross through his lashes, and Ross sent a slow smile his way. George snapped his attention to the front of the room again, feeling a blush climbing from his chest to his face. He leant an elbow on the desk and rested his burning face in his hand. 

Ross reached out an arm to dip his pen in the inkpot, grazing his knuckles along the length of George’s forearm. George gave a small gasp involuntarily. He could feel himself starting to harden. He glanced at Ross again, who was staring straight ahead, the tiniest smile lifting the corners of his mouth. George dropped his gaze and concentrated on the map he was trying to draw. “The source of the Nile was initially thought to be…” droned the Professor. Ross shifted against George again, and George could feel the heat of his body through the thin cloth of his breeches. “Now if you begin your map in the Lower Mauretanian mountains…” George shakily sketched a mountain into his book and labelled it. 

Ross shifted again and knocked his blotting paper off the table with his elbow. It drifted under George’s feet. “‘scuse me George,” he whispered, leaning over. Just for a moment Ross’s hand ghosted over George’s thigh, then barely grazed his crotch before Ross reemerged holding his blotter. _God_. George bit on the end of his pen so hard he heard it crack. He was entirely hard now, his cock pressing against the seam of his breeches. He heard a soft chuckle from Ross and flushed even redder. “Ross…don’t.” he whispered. Ross glanced at him and wrote on the corner of the map George was sketching. 

_Not what you said last night_

Even in his flustered state, George had to repress a smile at that. The memory of last night hit him again like a slap and he bit his lip hard remembering how he had begged Ross not to stop. He scratched the message out with his pen. 

The bell rang at last, and Ross gathered his books and rushed from the room, with barely a backward glance at George. George remained seated, pretending to put finishing touches on his map, to give himself time for his erection to subside. Why did any encounter with Ross always leave him feeling as if he’d been in a whirlwind?

_________

Things continued that way between them. Nothing was discussed - school seemed set up to ensure that no one ever had a second of privacy - and when they did have any moments alone there was no time to speak, all they could do was grab at each other and snatch hot, biting kisses, bringing each other off as hard and fast as they could. 

It amused Ross no end that George was loud when he touched him.

"Those solemn, sorrowful grey eyes," Ross would say afterwards, nuzzling George's neck, "and that watchful manner of yours. Like a parson. Who would guess you yelp like a vixen?"

"I do not," said George, who had lived in town all his life and only had the vaguest idea of what a vixen sounded like. Ross only laughed and helped him fasten his breeches.

Sometimes they would go several days without any chance to see each other alone at all. But just when George thought he would explode if Ross didn't touch him again, he would hear a tap tap late at night on his door and a whispered summons, and they would be off. Usually in the corridor leading to the servant quarters, fumbling in the dark, George’s back pressed against the damp plaster of the wall, helpless in Ross’s hands. Always fast and in darkness, before they were interrupted by tired tread of a kitchen maid heading to bed. 

And it was never, ever enough; he always wanted more. 

_________

The summer that year only got hotter and hotter and seemed to George to bring a madness with it. He could not stop thinking about Ross. Every sticky, sultry night was a torment unless Ross came for him; every sweltering day in the classrooms with Ross only feet away was misery. George dragged himself from lesson to lesson, and then to bed, frustrated and distracted. Obsessed.

The frustration came out in bickering with Ross. George would pick, pick, pick at him until he reacted, and Francis would threaten to knock their heads together. George could not seem to help himself; there was something in him that delighted in triggering Ross’s temper. He did not know what was wrong with him. 

_________

The weather broke at last in a series of thunderstorms which kept the boys trapped inside, with no way of burning off energy.

George came into the common room on a muggy, rainy Saturday afternoon feeling sweaty and bored. The storms did not seem to have cooled the air at all. Usually they would be at Games just now, but the field was waterlogged with the torrential rain.

Most of the boys were also packed into the common room, and there was an unholy racket going on. John Taylor bounded up to him at the door.

“Westland’s thought up the most terrific game,” he said, brushing his mop of blonde hair out of his eyes. “You have to get all around the room without touching the floor - and if you fall then you’ve to jump over that desk there in one leap. Come on!”

A few months ago George would have been disdainful or unwilling to join in on something so boisterous. It seemed undignified. But now he joined in enthusiastically, leaping up onto the windowsill, running along it and then making a lunge for an armchair. This upset Westland himself who had been balanced on the arm of the chair about to make a jump towards the mantlepiece and they both clattered to the floor with a shout, where they gave each other a couple of good natured thumps. “Jump, jump!” yelled John and one or two of the others, and George made a valient attempt at launching himself over the school desk. He made it, but only just, and landed in a heap at the feet of Ross, who had just come in.

Out of breath and laughing, he looked up at Ross, aware that his face must be red and his hair all on end. Ross looked at him oddly and walked quickly to the other end of the room.

“Come on, Warleggan, make another try for it,” cried Westland, and George threw himself back into the game. By this time he was boiling hot and had taken off his waistcoat and stock, as had most of the other boys. He had just succeeded in completing his first round of the room - being one of the only boys small enough to balance along the top of the mantlepiece - when John accidentally flipped the schooldesk and emptied an inkwell all over George’s breeches.

“Oh that’s torn it,” said John, as George tried to mop himself up. “I _am_ sorry George.”

George just laughed. “It is nothing. I’d best go and change, Prayers are in a quarter of an hour,” he said. He glanced over at Ross who was sitting by the window, staring moodily at the rain. George wondered why he was being so quiet and hadn’t joined in; they hadn’t even argued recently. No time to ponder over it though. He hurried out of the common room.

Quick footsteps followed him down the corridor, and before he could turn Ross had him by the arm and into an empty classroom. "You..." Ross slammed the door, pushed him against it and kissed him hard. George gasped in surprise and bucked up against him, grabbing a handful of Ross’s shirt to deepen the kiss. “I could hardly look at you in there,” Ross murmured, “half undressed and all flushed up.” George began to push himself against Ross, but Ross it seemed had other ideas. Ripping down the fall of George’s breeches he got one hand around George's already hard cock, clamped the other over George's mouth and started bringing him off in short strokes. George moaned helplessly, bracing himself against the door. "Drive me insane," Ross said, opening his own breeches and pushing his erection up against George's, wrapping his hand around both. It was more than George could bear, the feel of Ross's skin against his, and he came with a muffled shout, trembling all over. Ross came just after, panting into George's bare neck.

The bell rang for Prayers then, and Ross left George with a kiss and a grin as they both scrambled off to tidy themselves.

______

The next morning, the post arrived before the end of breakfast and there were two letters for George. 

George was surprised. No one usually wrote to him at all, although he dutifully sent off a letter every Sunday as the other boys did - his father certainly had never done, and his Uncle sent the occasional line, but it was usually full of instructions on how to take advantage of any connections he had made, rather than any news from home.

the first was from Harry. It looked like he’d written it in a hurry, the sentences all running together.

“Dear George,

Mother says I can write to whomever I like at school now, I just cannot write to T and he cannot write to me & even if I could, he would not be allowed to read them. It is hard luck on us both. When I am a man I will never treat my own son so unfairly & he shall have all the friends he likes.

Father gave me a flogging when I got home but that is all done with now and we are on speaking terms again. I am not to go back to any school but I have a tutor now. Life is quite dreary & quiet However the food is better. I wager you are reading this at breakfast with burnt porridge in the bowl before you I know I am right. 

As for everything with T well I feel worse not better. It eats away at one & it is so dull here I think about it a lot. If I were you I would not get into a thing at school if you can help It does not come to any good best wait till you are a Grown man & resist for now (even tho I think the letters RP are important to you but don’t worry I would never tell).

That is all really Could you send the cricket score from the match last week? I would like to know how they do without me.”

George felt his face flush violently at Harry’s mention of ‘RP’. Could everyone tell? Or had Harry just put two and two together since they spoke?

“George you are blushing like a girl. Who is that letter from?” said Francis, glancing over.

“No one. I...it’s from Harry that’s all. And I’m not blushing.”

“You and Harry write to each other?” said Ross, looking at him sharply. “I did not know you were friendly with him.”

“We used to speak together, a bit. That’s all. We roomed together after all.”

Francis raised his eyebrows but said nothing, and turned his attention to the next letter in his pile.

“So how is he?” asked Ross. “Does he miss you? He has only been home a few weeks and he is writing to you already.” He seemed almost angry. George felt irritated. 

“He is dull at home. He cannot write to Tom so he writes to me instead. That’s all.”

Francis interrupted by tossing a half-folded letter over to Ross. “This is yours,” he said.

Ross snatched it up and unfolded it quickly. “Why is it open?”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t read it,” Francis said, an edge creeping into his voice. “The name was smudged on the envelope, that’s all, and I thought it was for me. Elizabeth must have been weeping over your beauty as she addressed it.”

Ross said nothing, his eyes devouring the letter.

“Who is Elizabeth? Is she a cousin?” George asked.

“Haven’t you heard about Elizabeth? Perhaps it’s only I who has the pleasure of listening to Ross’s endless ramblings about her.” Francis kept his voice light and teasing, but his expression was the opposite. “They met at a party father held last summer. Struck by a thunderbolt, weren’t you Ross?”

“Ross?” George said.

But Ross wasn’t listening to them at all. He swung his legs over the bench and stood up, tucking the letter inside his waistcoat. “See you at Games,” he said, and strode out of the dining hall.

“Why,” said George carefully, watching his retreating back, “Has he never mentioned her to me?” A cold, sick feeling was spreading over him.

“Because you’re lucky,” said Francis shortly. He folded his arms. George just looked at him. “Oh very well. Most likely because her mother disapproves and has forbidden Elizabeth to write to him. It’s all very cloak and dagger. My sister Verity has to smuggle Ross’s letters to her. He only gets one every few months ”

Francis voice had hardened. “I had thought she preferred me, at first. She danced the first three dances with me. But then Ross arrived, and…” Francis shrugged. “You know how he is.”

George nodded, trying to keep his expression blank.

“So, Ross keeps her a secret,” said Francis.

“But he could trust me. I wouldn’t tell anyone,” said George. “I only really know Ross and you.”

“Well you know now. And I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it in dreary, endless detail if you ask. Sometimes I wish you roomed with him instead of I, George. I’d get more sleep.”

George could think of no possible answer to make to that. “Does he...love her?” he said, pushing the uneaten food around his plate.

“He says he’s going to marry her,” said Francis, pushing away the rest of his porridge.

George sat very still, the breakfast he had eaten turning queasily in his stomach.

He lurched to his feet. “I...I must go.”

He had a vague impression of Francis’ confused face as he almost ran past him, out of the hall. Flinging a side door open, he staggered outdoors, taking large shaky breaths of air. It was no good. He made it as far as the back of the stables before throwing up and up till he was empty.

“Didn’t think they gave you boys ale at breakfast,” said a voice behind him. “Might consider getting an eddication meself if that’s changed.”

George turned to see the stablemaster behind him, offering a handkerchief. He took it and wiped at his mouth and the cold sweat on his forehead. His head thumped. “They don’t. I’m not. I...I had a shock, that’s all.”

The stablemaster squinted at him in the morning sun. “Best sit down a minute then, young master, and I’ll fetch the strong stuff. Good for shocks, it is.”

George leant against the stable wall and slumped to the ground, for once careless of the state of his breeches. He did not know what was worst: that Ross was in love with a girl he planned to marry, or that he, George, was so besotted that he could not suppress his feelings at all on hearing of it. He’d thought he had had it under control. That he was in love with Ross was inconsequential. He would never confess it. But he’d thought, perhaps they would have some time together. As adults, out of school. To be free with each other. Before they both married, because of course they would both have to, George could not delude himself. 

“There. Wrap yourself around that, young sir.”

“You are very kind,” George said. He looked down at the smeared glass which had been thrust into his hand, with half an inch of amber liquid in the bottom. Suddently he felt that here was nothing he wanted more, and tossed it back in one gulp. A pleasant burning sensation spread down his throat and into his empty belly, and he looked up and grinned. The stablemaster laughed and clapped his knee.

“Enjoy that, did you? That’s the only one you’re getting from me, boy, ” he said, whisking the glass out of George’s hand before shuffling back into the stables. 

George very much wanted another, he knew that, at least. He wanted enough to blot out the world. He was so, so very tired of having to fight with himself this way. Always checking, second-guessing anything he did or said with other boys in case he was being sinful or unnatural without realising. The worry, the fear of going blind from self abuse, or mad. Although this felt like madness in any case, this constant itch under his skin. Perhaps this was it, this was his punishment from God. 

As the whisky hit his bloodstream he began to feel angry. No, he did not deserve this. And it was unthinkable, stupid, idiotic of Ross to think he could just marry some girl he barely knew, when they were still so young. No. Perhaps he could never have Ross - not completely, not like he wanted him - but some stranger would not get him either. There must be a way that Elizabeth could be disposed of at least. 

He looked up to see Francis approaching across the yard. 

“George!” he yelled. “What are you doing there?”

George scrambled to his feet. 

“I felt ill all of a sudden, but I’m recovered.”

Francis screwed up his nose. “It’s the porridge. The horses are fed on better oats than we are, I’d wager. You forgot your letters,” he said, holding out Tom’s letter and the envelope George had yet to open. It was addressed in his Uncle’s writing he noticed, before shoving it inside his coat. 

“Where did Ross go?”

“Oh he’ll be holed up somewhere, reading his letter. He’ll be in a foul mood all day now.”

“Are her letters so dreadful?” said George, lightly. 

“No, but she’ll have mentioned a party or a fete, and he’ll work himself up into a jealous ferment. You’ll see. No doubt he’ll bite both our heads off before the day is out. I hope I am not like it when I am engaged.”

“But it seems unlikely that Ross will really marry her, do you not think?” said George, keeping his voice very neutral. “I’m sure he thinks he loves her, but he is so impetuous.”

“He seems determined.”

“But we are still at school. It is very early to make such decisions.”

“Ross will be eighteen in a month. Old enough,” said Francis, more to himself than to George.

George tried a different tack. “And what of her? You said she preferred you, at first. Who says her head could not be turned again?”

“What are you suggesting, George?” said Francis, as if coming out of a dream. “That I make a try for my own cousin’s fiance?”

“Of course not,” said George hurriedly. “I was merely speculating. I am sure my concerns are misplaced, I have never met Elizabeth and no doubt she is very constant to Ross. Certainly she excels at keeping secrets.”

Francis looked at George, frowning slightly, then seemed to go off into a daydream again. George watched him closely but said nothing more. The seed was planted, he hoped.

_____

It wasn’t till much later, when George was alone in the common room after dinner, that he felt rather than heard a rustling in his coat pocket and remembered the letters he had thrust in there earlier. He tore open the unread one from his Uncle. 

It was the usual almost illegible scrawl, badly spelt and blotted. Telling him he should befriend _this_ boy because he might be useful, or that _that_ boy was heir to a fortune, or another had a father who was reckless with money and might not want anyone to know. Hardly worth reading. George had long since given up on using school as a way to drum up business for the bank; his Uncle understood nothing of what made a boy popular, and it wasn’t having pots of money or using blackmail. 

He tossed it aside onto a desk. 

Ross slammed into the room then. As Francis had predicted he looked to be in a towering rage. He stamped over to the window and looked out, then stamped back again and threw himself into a chair near the fire. 

George pointedly took out some writing paper and began a letter back to Harry. Ross might be looking for an argument but he wasn’t going to give him one. He dipped his pen in the inkwell and began scratching away while Ross moodily kicked at the hearth rug. George still refused to look at him, and Ross got up to prowl the room.

George had become quite engrossed in his letter when he realised that Ross was standing stock still in front of him. He looked up. 

“What is this, George?” Ross said, his voice full of barely repressed rage. 

He was holding the letter Uncle Cary had sent. George snatched at it but Ross held it out of reach. 

“That is mine, Ross. You have no right to…”

But Ross had begun to read it aloud. 

_“You talk of the Poldarks most frequent. They is worth cultivating, so keep in there. you shd be trying for acquaintence with the Westland boys, as they have £20,000 a year to come to them each.”_ He looked up at George. “You wish to cultivate me, George?” he said, his voice dangerously quiet.

“It is my uncle, Ross, not I. He is…”

“But you must have written to him, of us. What did you say?”

“ Nothing but that you and Francis are my friends, and…”

Ross screwed the letter into a ball and threw it into the fire. Then he turned and slammed out of the room.

But George was not going to sit and accept Ross’s assessment of him. He got up, wrenched the door open and ran after Ross. 

Ross had rushed down the stairs, out the door and was half way across the courtyard before George caught up with him. 

“ROSS!”

Ross kept walking. George caught his arm and although Ross tried to shake him off, George whirled him around. 

“Listen to me…” George began. 

“Why, so you can tell me more lies? Creep further into my good graces?” Ross’s face was furious. “I never feel I _know_ you, George. You are unreadable. It seems you have so many secrets, so many schemes.”

“There’s nothing else to know, “ George said. “I don’t hide anything of importance.”

“Like you and your Uncle’s plans? Or writing to Harry?”

George had a temper of his own and it flared now. “I can write to whomever I like without your permission! And damn you, I am your _friend_. Why must you always assume the worst of me Ross? I pay no attention to my Uncle’s schemes and that letter was nothing to do with me. If you ever meet him you will understand what he is like.”

“I can only hope I never do.”

“Oh it is very well for you to sneer,” said George heatedly, “He may be mercenary but he has built everything he has with the sweat of his own back. Perhaps his ideas of friendship are not quite…”

“ _Friendship?_ He sees me as a business transaction. And that you defend him only makes me think you feel the same way.”

“I do _not_ feel the same way. Not about you, or, or Francis. But if my acquaintence with other boys leads to business in the future for my family, I see no harm or shame in it!”

Ross made a disgusted noise and turned away from George again. They had crossed the courtyard now and had reached the outhouse at the edge of the sports field. George grabbed Ross roughly by the arm and dragged him into it. 

“Get _off_ me,” Ross began, but George pushed him hard and he stumbled. 

“Does this feel like a business transaction?” George said, before grabbing the front of Ross’s coat and kissing him violently. Ross’s mouth opened to protest and George bit on his bottom lip before pushing his tongue into his mouth. 

“ _Fuck_ , George,” Ross managed. He pushed back against George, taking him by the shoulders and slamming him against the wall. George gasped as Ross grabbed his wrists and pinned his arms above his head. 

“I am not the only one who keeps secrets in any case,” said George, breathless. “I know about Elizabeth.”

Ross shook him angrily, holding his wrists tightly to the point of pain. “Shut up about her.”

“I suppose her letter has angered you and you came looking for a fight. I am an easy target.”

“Be _quiet_...”

“I will not. You read my _private_ letter, it is I who should be angry with _you_. I…”

Ross silenced him then with a frantic kiss, his stubble scraping against George’s skin, making his face flame with heat. George could feel Ross’s cock hard against his leg but could not move enough to get any friction against it. _God_ he was always so helpless in Ross’s hands. He struggled against him, the pain in his wrists only making him more aroused. He wanted Ross around him, against him, inside him. Everything.

“Ross,” he panted, “Can we...I _need_. I…” 

Ross nodded. “come on,” he said. He manouvered George to a pile of horse blankets in the corner of the outhouse and George let him push him onto them.

“Take them off,” Ross said, nudging George’s thigh with his foot. George’s hands scrabbled to his waistband and he yanked his breeches down in one movement. He lay there, completely exposed with his cock hard against his stomach. 

“Hurry,” he said. He had thought of doing this, many times, but hadn’t known how to ask. Or how to begin. And Ross had always seemed satisfied with George’s hands, or his own. But, oh _god_ , Ross too was stripping his breeches off in a furious kind of calm. “Turn over,” he said. 

_Fuck_. George rolled onto his stomach, heart thudding, his cock pressed against the rough wool. He could feel everything a hundred-fold - the drag of his cock against the blankets, the cold air on his back. Ross curled warm fingers around his hips and he jumped almost out of his skin at the touch. He could feel Ross’s hot breath warming his neck. George suddenly felt panicky and half turned back over. 

“Ross, I don’t know how...” 

Ross’s hands stilled on George’s hips, his furious expression gone. “You have never…? Turn around.” George rolled onto his back again. Ross leaned over him, nipping a kiss at his mouth. George could not catch his breath as Ross began to stroke his cock. 

“I won’t hurt you,” Ross said. “Just, when we begin, it will feel strange. Harris told me to count to ten and after that it feels good, and it worked.”

“ _Harris?_ ”

“My first.”

George flushed to think of Ross - always so confident, always in charge - submitting to this from another boy. “Tell me what he did to you.”

Ross smiled a little, then kissed George again until he felt dizzy. 

“First," Ross said at last, "he told me to suck his fingers wet,” George felt a surge of arousal at Ross’s words that made him bite hard on his lip to keep from moaning. Ross slid a finger into George’s mouth and George obediently sucked it, feeling himself getting impossibly hard. Ross gave an involuntary moan and his eyes darkened with desire.

“Yes, like that. _Fuck_ , George. He made me suck his fingers, and then put them _here_ ,” Ross said, taking his finger from George’s eager mouth and pressing it inside him. 

“OH!” George sat bolt upright. Ross kept his other hand on George’s cock, stroking and George was pinned helplessly between his two hands. 

“Lie back.” George fell back onto his elbows, unable to help pushing back against Ross, feeling Ross’s finger drive deeper within him while he arched into his hand. Ross quickened his movements. It was so good. So _good_. 

“Harris did this to me too,” Ross continued. “Opened me.” He took his hand off George’s cock and slid two fingers into George’s mouth. “Suck.” George did. Ross changed hands and pushed the newly wetted fingers inside George, the free hand now back at George’s cock, lightly stroking, teasing. He moved the fingers he had inside George back and forth and it was so _filthy_ what they were doing, so debauched, so wrong, so perfect. 

“Oh, _oh_ , Ross, I'm going to..to _finish_ if you..." George let his head fall back.

“Not yet,” said Ross, taking his hand off George’s cock. “I want you first.” George gasped at the loss of Ross’s hand and pushed back against his fingers again. 

“Tell me,” he said, breathless. “What then?”

“He got me to suck him, so he was wet, so he could fuck me more easily,” Ross said, stroking his own cock now. George felt hot all over, realising what Ross meant. He looked up at Ross and oh, he looked so...he was so hard, his eyes half closed with want. Wanting _him_. He reached out, grabbing Ross’s thighs and pulled Ross towards him. Ross put a knee on either side of George’s hips, bringing his cock right in front of George’s mouth. George opened his mouth licked at it, unsure what to do. He wrapped his hand around it and licked again, and Ross groaned.

“ _Oh_ , I...I licked him, like that. Then I… _Oh.Oh Christ_. I took him into my mouth and…”

George took Ross in his mouth then too, sliding down as far as he could go. His cock was so smooth, heavy in his mouth, already slighty wet. Ross clutched at George’s hair, moaning. George sucked him and Ross thrust into him, and again, pulling his hair, before stopping himself and pulling away. “S-sorry George,” he said, “If I let you do that for one second longer…I _God_. Your mouth.”

George licked the wetness from his lips and Ross ran his thumb along George’s bottom lip. George’s eyes closed and he could feel his own cock wet against his stomach. “What did he do to you then?” he breathed. Ross began rubbing his cock at George’s opening, pressing slightly against him, and George let his legs fall open, completely exposed, touching himself. 

“Then he turned me over onto my face, and pushed inside me. He was...he felt huge. Made me count to ten, and then, _oh_ , then fucked me till I didn’t know what day it was,” said Ross. “ _Now_ , George. I’m going to...”

George was so weakened by want that he could not speak, but nodded and wetted his lips again. 

“Lift your legs,” Ross said and pushed George back against the blankets. 

Ross began to press inside him. _Ohhh_. It was not the pleasure he had hoped. He felt so full, he did not know if he could go on. He panted and squirmed a little, his own cock subsiding. “R- Ross. It feels…” Ross leaned over him and caught his mouth in a kiss, taking George’s hands and trapping them above his head again. 

“Count with me,” he said. “One…” He bit on George’s lower lip. 

“Two,” managed George, and Ross sucked on the lip he had bitten. 

“Three,” said Ross, licking into George’s mouth, and _oh_. He had never imagined kissing to be like this till Ross. Lips parted, hot, frantic, desperate. Despite his discomfort his cock hardened again. 

“Four,” he gasped between kisses. “Five.”

“ _Fuck_ George. You’re so, oh… _Christ_. Oh god, so tight. Six.” 

“Seven,” said George, and any discomfort had disappeared. “Eight. _Ross_. You can...it feels...it's. _Ohh._ You can move, move now if you want…”

"Nine. _Oh_. I can't,” Ross almost laughed. “Fuck, George if I move…” He pressed in a tiny bit further. “If I _move_ , I'm going to f-finish. You..." 

“ _Ten._ Please Ross, just. Oh god, _please_.” He could hear himself begging but he could not help it. He pushed against Ross and _yes_ The feeling of Ross’s hard muscled chest against him, his own cock trapped and leaking between their stomachs, it was _my god_ , and Ross _inside_ him...Moaning he bucked up against Ross again, tilting his hips, which felt so, so... He thrust down again and yes, yes Ross’s cock seemed to touch some spot inside him that sent his head reeling, sent him crying out, and then Ross gave a moan and began to move, thrusting back at him, hard, fast, holding his shoulders so he could fuck George deeper. George wrapped his legs around Ross, using his heels to force Ross further inside him and it felt _Oh_ he wouldn’t care if he was torn apart, if it felt like this. He pictured Ross, bent over, with Harris inside him and _fuck_ , fuck it was too much, it was...

“Oh God, _God_ ,” Ross was saying, eyes closed, hips crashing against George. He fucked with such intensity that George felt his back arch up off the blankets he lay on, and now Ross had moved a hand to George’s cock and _yes_ he could feel, he could feel his climax coming, he was so close, so hard, and, and Ross’s hand, and Ross’s _cock_ deep in him, and _yes, oh fuck, fuck,_ “Harder,” he managed and _yes, yes_ Ross groaned a helpless “ _Fuck_ ” into his neck, bucking in a frenzy; and came, buried inside him, just as George went over the edge himself. Almost sobbing, George could feel himself clamping around Ross as he spent in ribbons all over both their stomachs. 

They clung to each other, slick with sweat, breathing hard, until Ross pulled out of George and rolled over to lie next to him. It was twilight now, and George could barely make out Ross’s face in the dark of the shed. George felt relaxed, used, amazing. Nothing could touch him, not in this moment. 

“When I came after you, I wanted to punch you in the nose,” George said eventually. “I did not expect this.”

“And I wanted to knock you down. You make me so furious,” Ross said. “But every time we fight, even while I want to break your head open, I want to do this, too.”

“I will remember that every time we argue,” said George, tracing his fingers along Ross’s arm. He stopped himself before the action became too tender, too obvious. Ross did not seem to notice. 

“Perhaps we will not argue any more,” he said, and grinned. George laughed. 

“You are bad tempered and stubborn, and I have not changed my mind about my Uncle, or about writing to Harry, so I believe we _shall_ argue again,” said George. 

“And you are too calculating, and too competitive, and I have not changed my mind about your Uncle either. But,” said Ross, “Let us not start again now.”

“What was in Elizabeth’s letter that made you so angry?”

Ross was silent for a moment. “It was full of parties and balls and to-ing and fro-ing,” he said. 

“But you surely don’t expect her never to go to parties or balls, just because you are here,” said George. 

“Of course not. It is not that at all. I suppose, it is that I am concerned her expectations, of me...of marriage...will be that we are part of society. High society I mean. Throwing balls, dinners, fancy clothes. Dancing. What if she wants me to be smart and civilised? Or to stop playing cards? And yet, she is everything you would want in a girl. Beautiful, clever. Accomplished.”

George saw his opportunity. He kept his voice neutral, innocent. 

“She must indeed be wonderful to make you think of marrying so young. I intend to wait a few years after school before marrying,” he said. “ I confess I could not be so decisive as you. I would like to taste some freedom, as a man, before beginning family life.”

“Elizabeth would not prevent my freedom.”

“I’m sure she would not. But the strictures of married life with most girls...it strikes me one cannot freely have everything you want to enjoy. Once you are a husband, you must behave a certain way, or at least give the appearance of it.”

“Oh, _appearances_. You are all about the appearance of things George. I swear you have the soul of a maiden aunt.” But George did not rise to his jab, as he could see a small frown on Ross’s face, and was satisfied. 

“And talking of appearances, we must go. Or I will appear to have been buggered by a Poldark and I will be expelled,” he said lightly. 

“How delicately put,” said Ross, and heaved himself to his feet, offering a hand to George.

“About as delicately as it was done,” returned George. Ross gave a bark of laughter. They dressed as quickly as they could in the half dark and George was ready first. He lingered in the doorway, full of questions he could not ask. Would they do this again; did Ross feel anything at all for George beyond lust and slight intolerance; were they truly friends now? But he could no more ask any of those than fly to the moon. 

“Go on,” said Ross. “We cannot leave together.”

George nodded. “Goodnight then,” he said and stepped out alone into the summer night.


	5. Discovery

Someone slammed George against the wall of the outhouse, clapping a hand over his mouth. 

It was William, of course. 

“Don’t try to shout. I want to see who was in there with you,” he said. 

George struggled but William leant his full weight against him. He could not call out to warn Ross; he could barely breathe. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ross’s shadow approaching the doorway. 

George kicked William as hard as he could in the shin. 

William’s howl of pain was enough; Ross melted into the shadows with barely a sound. George thanked God that Ross had not realised he was there too as he would no doubt have tried to help, and that would have sunk them both. 

William released George, flinging him away from him. George wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Ross Poldark was in there with you wasn’t he.”

“I was alone.”

“There was someone with you. You cannot deny it. And look at you…” William yanked at George’s waistcoat. “Half undressed still.”

“Whatever you think you saw…”

“Oh I saw plenty. Of you at any rate. Aren’t you ashamed? It is disgusting.” William grabbed George by his collar and yanked him forward, half choking him. “I can smell it on you.”

George tried to twist out of his grasp. “What are you doing here?” he said, struggling. 

William yanked him forward again and threw him to his knees. George skidded on the ground, feeling the knees of his breeches tear. 

“I am a prefect and it is my duty to check the grounds for boys breaking rules.”

“Is it also your duty to spy on things that are none of your business?” George spat. He felt reckless, as helpless as he was at William’s feet. 

WIlliam scoffed. “I thought it might be two of the stablehands, they are like animals anyway. But it was you.” He prodded George in the chest with his foot. “Of course, I had imagined you were that sort…” William said. “The way you pine after Ross Poldark. But to think you would actually...”

“You have imagined me?” said George, as provokingly as he could, then wished he could have bitten his tongue out as William’s face blackened with rage. 

“How...how _dare_ you, you foul little, you unnatural…” William could barely speak. He aimed a kick at George and George only just managed to roll out of the way. William grabbed him by the hair and began to drag him. Pain seared through his scalp. This was it. William was going to beat him into nothing and there was no one to stop him this time. 

But William was dragging him to his feet. 

“I do not understand why are you are not more grateful to me,” he said, releasing George’s hair and shoving him backwards so that he staggered. “Not only did I not tell the headmaster that you were fighting with me and saved you from a caning…”

“I was _not_ fighting you,” George interrupted. “You were beating me.”

“...I have let you away with cheating me out of money.”

“You let me away with nothing. You broke my face open,” said George. 

“And now I am willing to let you away with sodomy,” said William as if George had not spoken. “Even though you could be a danger to other boys. Which boy did you force tonight?”

“Who could I force?” said George, incredulous. “Who could _I_ overpower?”

“You have ways. You are cunning.”

“I did not…”

“Don’t. LIE,” William ground out, taking hold of George’s shoulders and shoving him back against the wall again. George began to sense something more than anger from William in the way he was breathing heavily, leaning up against George. 

“I suppose you are getting pleasure from me touching you,” William said, panting. He was pressing himself so hard against George it felt indecent. George thanked god he was not so touch-starved as he had been only a few weeks ago, or his body might have betrayed him, however repulsed his mind might be. George did not answer but was keenly aware that William’s mouth was level with his own and only inches away. 

“Does this excite you?” William said, pushing a knee between George’s legs. George felt panic rising in his throat.  
“No...I…”

But William continued to push George’s thighs apart with his knee, and George’s stomach lurched with horror when he felt that William was hard. Surely William would not...no. Not that. He could not. He closed his eyes, turned his head away, heart thumping out of his chest. 

“Don’t you want this? Are you spent from being with your ‘friend’? I heard the...the vile _noise_ you were making, it was sickening. You may as well tell me who he is, for I will discover it, if I have to hold you here all night.”

“I was...I was not with a boy from school. It was someone from outside. From the tavern,” George lied desperately, his mind racing. _William wanted him_. It was twisted up of course, and confused with hatred and disgust, but he desired him. 

“Some traveller? I don’t believe you.”

“One of the kitchen hands.”

“A kitchen hand?”

“Yes.” George felt William’s grip on him loosen. 

“And you let a kitchen hand do… _that_ to you. You lay there and let him.” William’s face was twisted with disgust. “Everyone finds their level, I suppose.” he said. “And your level could not be any lower.”

He pushed George away from him in revulsion. 

““When I go to the headmaster about this, you will be expelled. You know that, don’t you? Your family’s reputation will be ruined. Unless you do as I say.”

The fear and the panic began to fade at William’s words and George took a shaky breath. Blackmail. Physical danger was one thing, but blackmail... 

“Oh please William,” he said as meekly as he could. “Don’t tell.”

“I feel it is my duty to rid the school of a little sod like you. But perhaps I won’t. If you do this thing for me…”

But William drew a letter from his pocket. 

“My father,” said William, “Has fallen behind on his payments to Warleggans Bank. It is not his fault - your father set a criminal rate of interest. And he would have paid it all back with his winnings at cards but some blaggard cheated him, as you cheated me.”

George said nothing. 

“If you do not tell your father to cancel the loans and call off his dogs, then I will tell everyone your secret. I’ll tell them you confessed to being with Ross too.”

“But I told you…” 

“Who will believe you over me? I can say what I like. I know you are obsessed with Ross Poldark. He would not remain friends long with someone who tells disgusting lies about him. Do as I say, or I shall expose you.”

“Please don’t! I’ll do anything. I shall write to my father directly. Tomorrow,” George said.

“See that you do,” William said, looking pleased. “Go on then, get out of my sight.”

George ran.

___________

 

Minutes later, George edged into the common room. He had tried to creep upstairs to tidy himself, but one of the masters had been standing at the top of the stairs so he could not. He knew he must look a sight, after being dragged around on the ground. 

“My god George, what happened?” said Bill Westland, seeing his torn breeches and mud splattered clothing.

“William caught me breaking bounds.”

A collective groan went around the room. Ross had started to his feet. His eyes met George’s, wide with fear. 

“He’s such a swine.”

“He did the same to me when he caught us drinking brandy in the stables after lights out. He’s nothing but a sneak and a bully.”

The shock of George’s appearance over, the boys drifted back to their previous occupations. Ross beckoned George over to the window with a jerk of his head. 

“Where did William find you?” Ross whispered. 

“Directly outside the outhouse. He had been spying upon us,” George whispered back. 

“Did he _see_...?”

“No. At least, he could not tell who I was till I came out. Too dark.”

“But he must have heard…”

“Yes. Yes, he heard. But he still does not know who was there with me.”

“That shout as I left, that was you?”

“It was me kicking William,” George said, a small pleased smile escaping him. Ross gave a slight smile back. 

The bell rang then for bed. The room emptied slowly as the boys reluctantly put their books and games away, but soon most were gone. George and Ross hung back. 

Ross awkwardly took George’s hand in both of his. “Are you hurt?”

“Not really. He knocked me over a bit, but he didn’t actually hit me.”

“I seem to be forever asking you if you are hurt.” Ross darted a look at the doorway, then leant forward and kissed George. “You should not have faced William alone.” George smiled weakly at him, unable to articulate the surge of feeling that flowed through him. He wanted to declare himself, tell him that of course he would always do anything for Ross, if only Ross would never take his friendship away. 

“I wonder that William didn’t hit you though,” Ross said. “It is almost against his nature.”

“He did not hit me, but he...” George dropped his voice to a whisper again, “He held me down and he said...things. And I could feel...I could tell he _wanted_ me. He denies to himself that he does but it makes him hate me more. He frightens me.”

Ross looked shocked, then furious. 

“Wait - George. You did not have to do anything with him, did you? He did not force you?” 

“No.” George could not quite look at Ross. 

“But he touched you. Tell me.” He squeezed the hand he still held. 

“It was nothing really,” said George, though his voice betrayed him. “He just held me against the wall and leaned on me. Pushed his knee between…” he faltered. Ross nodded him on, gripping George’s hand tightly. “I felt him, against me. He was hard.”

“Good _God_.” Ross released George’s hand and paced a little, running his fingers through his unruly hair, trembling with fury. “George, this is...How did you get away?”

“I made up a tale of me being there with a kitchen hand from the tavern. Once he heard that he was too disgusted to touch me.”

“Oh that would have done it, he’s such a snob,” said Ross. “What a truly foul creature he is.” He stopped pacing and grasped George by the shoulders. “You cannot go around alone George. Not any more. William sees you as different to the rest of us, he may try things with you he wouldn’t with another. I had always wondered about him,” said Ross. “He never indulged like the rest of us did. He was always above all that. Now I wonder if he is the most twisted of us all.”

“It seems likely.” Ross’s hands on his shoulders steadied him and his words soothed his frantic thoughts. 

“And that is everything that happened?” said Ross.

“He plans to blackmail me. He says he will accuse you, too, but just to hurt me. He knows we are friends.” George raised his chin defiantly, in case Ross wished to deny the fact. 

“Blackmail you into...being with him?”

“No. It is to do with his father’s debts.”

Ross’s expression changed to one of relief. 

“But then let him tell! If he accuses me of anything I will claim he is lying. The Headmaster trusts me. And you can tell the truth - that William attacks you because his father owes yours money. ”

“I cannot risk it, Ross. I have no confidence that the Headmaster will believe me.”

“Of course he will. The worst that will happen is that some silly rumours will pass about. It could not matter less. Just let it alone,” Ross said. 

George began to feel annoyed. How could he be so understanding one moment, then miss the point entirely the next? It was all very well for Ross not to care about rumours, but George would be crucified by them. His family’s standing in society was too fragile, too easily tarnished. 

“Perhaps Poldarks are immune to threats to their reputation, but I assure you the Warleggans are not,” he said shortly. “ I plan to write to my father tomorrow.” 

“George, I beg you, do nothing about this. William has only his word against ours, and his word does not carry more weight than mine at least.”  
But George’s mind was racing ahead. It was not just his family’s name and business which was at risk. It was the friendship he hoped to keep with Ross. If the family were ruined, or even just reduced in circumstances, he would be removed from school. He would not attend or throw society parties; he would not be invited to their balls; he would have no reason to be among the aristocrats and landowners at all. 

He and Ross would be separated entirely. 

“I cannot risk it,” George repeated. “I must act. I am determined.” 

Ross looked resigned. “I can see you are,” he said. “Just...be careful. More people than just William could be harmed by a plan of revenge.”

“Why do you think I have a plan of revenge?”

Ross gave a half smile. “You forget I have played you at cards. You have a plan working away in that brain of yours, I know that look. The more solemn you appear, the more dangerous you are.” 

George could not help but smile back. “Perhaps I do have something planned.”

“I do not doubt it. Now,” Ross said as the sound of the housemaid approached, “We must go. Together. Remember what I said about being alone. But while we walk, tell me of the kitchen hands from the tavern. Which would you choose - Johnny or Fred?”

“Ross, be serious.”

“But which?” 

They looked at each other. 

“...Fred,” they both said, and burst into laughter.

 

________

George sucked the end of his pen and stared out of the window. The letter he was trying to write to his father was difficult to word. He had to give the reason he was being blackmailed, but only in a way that he appeared innocent. He did not want his father to read between the lines and guess at the truth behind William’s threats. He had also asked his father not to deal too harshly with William’s father as it might go badly for George at school if he did. He just wanted him to make the problem go away as easily as possible. 

The hour the school allocated for letter writing was drawing to a close and he must get on. George sighed deeply, scratched out a couple of lines and scribbled down some more. That would have to do. The tale he had spun should fool his father at least; if only his father would keep the letter from his Uncle who would see through it in an instant.

 

_______________

Life at school seemed to hang in the balance as he awaited his father’s reply. George felt snappy and bad tempered with everyone. He longed to go back to the days before William had caught him, when his only worry was getting to be alone with Ross as often as possible. 

Not that William catching George had stopped them. Ross still wanted George as often as ever - he seemed unaffected by any worry about their situation - and George wanted him too. And he did not want William to win. 

They were less careless now though. Their meetings were faster, more intense than ever, in hidden corners of the school that Ross knew of. George learned to muffle his cries at the finish in his hand or Ross’s neck, and Ross would fuck George with such a silent intensity that he would only know Ross had come by Ross’s hands clamping hard around George’s hips, and a slight shudder running through him. George loved to be fucked, he had discovered, and the silence and secrecy only added to the pleasure. A fleeting kiss afterwards, then they were off in different directions, George’s cock still wet and half hard in his breeches, his heart still thudding, his skin burning with the rub of Ross’s stubble. 

The school year was drawing to a close and end of term exams kept the teachers, if not the pupils, distracted and more lenient about the boys’ leisure time. George, Ross, Francis, John and Bill managed to sneak out to the tavern the night after their last exam and had an uproarious time.

Bill Westland drank till he was sick and fell asleep in the courtyard with his head in a horse trough. John used the last of his pocket money on half an hour with Margaret, who brought him back down looking sheepish but happy after fifteen minutes. 

George and Ross stole outside under the pretext of checking on Bill, and had an intense ten minutes at the back of the stable, George sucking Ross so hard he came in moments, his hands tangled in George’s hair, then Ross shoving George against the stable wall and bringing him off in fast punishing strokes while he moaned into Ross’s chest.

The only sour note was when a drunken merchant tried to cheat Francis at the gaming table. Ross, who was drunkest of them all by then, grabbed at the man’s sleeve revealing a sheaf of hidden cards. With a cry of rage the merchant rose and set about Ross, who gave back as good as he got but with decidedly more agility. 

“That Poldark boy brawls like a navvy,” one of the drinkers at the bar said approvingly.

A friend of the merchant’s had joined the fray now, wading in with fists flying. Francis and John launched themselves at him, managing between them to pin him down. The merchant had a chair leg now, swinging it at Ross who was tiring and had fallen backwards over an upturned table. 

“Help him, Warleggan, for God’s sake!” yelled John as George stood hesitantly by. But just at that moment, Fred the kitchen hand ran up and threw a bucket of cold slops over the merchant, ending the fight immediately. 

Ross got to his feet. “Thank you, Fred,” he said, and winked at George, who smothered a grin. Fred shrugged and took himself back to the kitchen. 

“The Warleggan boy is friendly with the Poldarks then?” George overheard someone say. “Could be a blessing for them in the long run. I heard Poldark senior took a terrible pasting at the gaming table over at the White Hart in Truro last week. His mine hangs in the balance so they say. He may need a Bank before long.”

George did not hear any more then, as the Innkeeper came over and ejected the boys. “Enough for tonight young sirs. I can’t spare the furniture.” 

They left cheerfully enough, waking Bill as they left by carrying him over to the pump and dousing him in freezing water. 

On the unsteady ride home, Ross sat behind George and fell fast asleep with his arms around George’s waist and his head on George’s shoulder. Trotting back under the stars, spirits lifted by the ale, George felt almost entirely happy. If only life could be like this always. 

He could almost forget he was waiting for the letter. 

_______

But it came the very next morning and George waited desperately for a moment to be alone to read it. A chance arose as their music master had been taken ill, and the boys had been sent to the common room to ‘study’. There was nothing to study however; the exams having come and gone already and George knew no master would bother about them for at least an hour. With a short nod to Ross, George slipped away to his room. 

Arriving there he found both beds stripped and the windows thrown open, a fire burning in the grate although the day was warm. The housekeeper insisted on ‘airing’ the bedrooms this way periodically, as she believed the fire burned away bad air and prevented illness. George tugged off his jacket and sat on the bed to read. Two letters fell out of the package. 

The letter from his father made his heart sink. 

_“Dear George,_

_I know that you wished your letter to be kept private between us, but it was of too much importance so I have shown it to Cary and it was wise that I did. He knew exactly what we should do. We cannot risk such a tale being spread about a Warleggan - the Trelawnys must be brought down entirely. I know you wrote that you did not wish me to be too harsh on the family but Cary rightly says this is down to your delicate nature, which I had hoped school would have knocked out of you by now. You must learn to harden yourself or you will get nowhere in this business. We cannot have such vile things being said of you and let them go unpunished.”_

George wondered what was about to come down upon the heads of the Trelawnys. It sounded as if his father would not hold back. Part of him worried about this, while another could not help but be pleased that William would be punished so thoroughly. 

The letter from his Uncle Cary was worse. 

_Your father may hav let hisself be taken in by your tale, but be asurred that I hav not. This Trelawny speaks the truth no dowt. I had hoped school wld cure you of this low trait but seems it has not. You will not stay for another year there but come home at the end of term insted where I plan to place you under my close direction. We will deal with this Trelawny well and truly but only for the sake of the Bank - not yours. And I will ensure there will not be any more such rumours of you tho my life or yours depend on it._

George knew what ‘close direction’ would mean. Thrashings, to begin with. Introductions to suitable young ladies after that. Perhaps even a visit to a whore - his Uncle had threatened him with such before. Perhaps he would ask for Margaret. She would be understanding at least. His every move would be watched, noted. Visits from school friends would not be allowed. His foolish ideas of Ross staying seemed ludicrous now; as if his Uncle would ever have permitted it. 

He tore the letters into strips and fed them one by one into the fire. Would that he could destroy the impediments to his freedom so easily. 

“Is it not nice that the exams are over? The masters do not seem to care what we do.” Ross said, swinging around the door jamb, making George jump out of his skin. Ross looked up and down the corridor, then propelled himself into the room and perched on Harry’s vacant bed. George’s eyes widened a little; they had never been so bold as to slip into each other’s rooms in broad daylight. He uncurled his legs from under him and sat up to face Ross.

“It is almost the summer holiday, George,” Ross said, a grin spreading from ear to ear. 

“How do you plan to spend your time?” George asked. 

“Attending as many balls and fetes as I can, and dancing as many dances with Elizabeth as I can get away with without her mother seeing,” Ross said merrily. 

Elizabeth again. She seemed to haunt every conversation now. To distract Ross, George slipped off his bed and leaned over him, snatching a kiss. 

“I did not think you enjoyed balls and fetes. Perhaps you can teach me how to swim this summer,” he said. 

Ross leaned back, frowning a little. “Perhaps,” he said. 

“I suppose Elizabeth will leave you no time for friends then?” said George, a little bitterly. “We shall not be seeing each other?”

“George…” said Ross. “You and I. It is a school thing, you know that don’t you? Elizabeth is...she is real.”

“A school thing,” George repeated. 

Ross looked relieved. “Yes. You understand. You know we could not continue.”

“Yes, I understand that part. What I don’t understand,” said George slowly, feeling a spark of anger in his chest, “Is why a girl you barely know is more real than what we have been doing.”

“I only meant…”

George moved away from Ross and closed the door of the room. Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. He turned back to Ross. 

“Because we do not just...it is not just ‘animal spirits’ between us. We eat together, we play cards, we study together, break rules together. I know everything about you. What you like. What you…” George leant forward and lowered his voice, “ _sound_ like, when you…”

Ross flushed a little; bit his lip, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Then he swallowed and looked at George. George felt a thrill of power at the effect he was having. 

“We are friends George. All I meant was that our fun cannot continue indefinitely. It should be confined to school. It is not safe to carry on.”

“Of course,” George said, stepping closer again, hearing Ross’s breathing hitch. He put his lips to Ross’s ear. “But we are still at school now.”

“Yes,” said Ross faintly. 

“So no need to stop now,” said George softly, ghosting a kiss over Ross’s jaw and enjoying the small moan that escaped the other boy. If only he could keep this upper hand always. 

Ross hooked two fingers into George’s waistband. “No need.” He pulled George hard against him. George lost all resolve as he always did, and kissed him, hungrily and desperately.

Ross began to maneuvre George over to George’s own bed, pulling open his breeches. But George wanted some control. Ross had charge of everything. He had begun things between them and he was going to decide when it was over. George could at least do this.

“No,” he said, shoving Ross away. “No. You do what I say for once.” 

Ross’s eyes widened at that and he took a shaky breath, “ _George._ ”

“Shut up, shut up” said George desperately. “Get undressed.” 

Ross stared at him, breathing hard, before beginning to comply. 

Surprised at himself, George began to strip his own clothes off but was distracted when Ross tugged his shirt off over his head and began on his breeches. They had never been naked together before. His body was...his skin was so tanned and he had hair, not just on his chest, but a tantalising path down his stomach to his crotch. George could not stop himself from touching him, running his hands over the silky hair, half kissing, half biting at his mouth. Ross pulled George’s shirt open, and then they were pressed against each other, skin to skin, kissing, tearing at George’s remaining clothes. Ross turned and pushed George against the bed, but George would not give ground. “No,” he said again. He shoved at Ross and Ross laughed and grabbed George’s wrist as he fell backwards, pulling him down on top of him. George wriggled out of his grasp but Ross hooked a leg over George and tried to roll him over. In response George grabbed both Ross’s wrists and pinned them above his head, straddling him. Ross struggled, but not too hard, panting up at him. 

“Oh you could stop me if you wanted,” George said, leaning all his weight against Ross. “I am much smaller than you. But you don’t want to, do you?” Ross’s cock was rock hard beneath him. “ _Do_ you?”

“No,” said Ross, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth, “I don’t. Just _oh_ , just get on with it.”

George ground against him, their cocks rubbing together, the feel of Ross’s muscled chest almost too much. Ross moaned underneath him, trapped by George’s weight, or at least not bothered about trying to break free. 

“I am going to have you, the way you have me,” said George, made bold by the inarticulate noises Ross was making.

“Do it then,” said Ross, arching up trying to reach George’s mouth, which he kept tantalisingly out of reach. “If it pleases you.”

George slammed him back down on the bed as hard as he could. “Lie still. Just…” He let go of Ross’s wrists and Ross immediately tangled his hands in George’s hair - he always said that he loved to put George’s hair in disarray, hear George’s sound of exasperation as he did it - and pulled him down for a kiss. George was lost as ever as Ross kissed him relentlessly, tugging at his hair, thrusting upwards so that his cock rubbed and slipped against George’s with excruciating pleasure. George could hear himself groaning into Ross’s mouth, weak with delight, the upper hand all but lost. 

“Y-you need to get me wet,” said George at last. “Like I do for you. I told you, I’m going to…”

“Use this,” said Ross, picking up Harry’s ointment from George’s side table. “Even better.”

He scooped some out and smoothed it over the head of George’s cock. George gave a cry from the cold of it, and the slippery slickness of Ross’s fingers stroking the ointment onto him, up and down. Try as he might Ross kept taking control and he had to wrest it back from him. But Ross’s warm hand on his cock stroking on the cold ointment distracted him entirely and he let out a long moan. 

“Oh. Oh _Ross_. You must stop. I...I am going to… _Oh_...Open your legs.”

“Wait.” Ross scooped out more of the ointment. And then George’s head reeled as Ross reached down and began to push his own finger inside himself. He looked, he, _God_ so filthy, so...and he was going to let George...he _wanted_ him to...

“Now, George,” said Ross, taking his finger out and yanking George down roughly for another kiss as George pressed the tip of his cock against Ross. 

He could not wait. He pushed inside and oh, oh god. He had never...he had never. He could not think. He stopped moving, almost in panic at the intensity, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Ross moaned and panted. George moved a little but _oh_ Ross was so tight, and he wanted...he wanted it to last but it was so...He closed his eyes, breathed. When he opened them again, Ross was tilting his hips up towards him, his eyes locked onto George’s, half challenge, half plea. 

The look in Ross’s eyes gave George a rush of power. He had the advantage at last; Ross was his in this moment. He leant back, shook his hair out of his eyes and began to fuck him. 

The world narrowed to his cock, and his cock inside Ross, and the _tightness_ and the heat and _oh god_ he was close already but he did not want to… _oh_ he did not want to stop. He tried to focus elsewhere, but Ross had thrown his head back, and his throat, and the lean muscle in his chest…he was going to...

He must think of something else, of something awful. What if they were caught. What if someone was to come in, and the shame and the trouble that would follow. What if _William_ were to see them, what if he… _oh_ was to walk in and see him fucking Ross...see Ross’s cock hard and wet, see his legs apart and George between them, hear him moaning, and _oh_ this was not working, thinking of his shock made him harder, more aroused. Elizabeth, then. The source of all his jealousy, all his dashed hopes. Think of how she will lie under Ross. But she could never do this, what he was doing now. She could never give Ross this. He stilled for a second.

“ _George_...don’t stop. Don’t…”

“Elizabeth can-cannot do this for you,” George said breathlessly, sensing that at this moment, only this moment, he could say what he liked. He pushed into Ross more slowly, but deeper. “You will not have this, not with her.” He curled his fingers lightly around Ross’s cock, brushing his thumb across the head agonisingly gently, and ground into him again.

“Stop _oh_ talking of her. I cannot…”

“Admit it, she would be horrified to see..oh… _oh_ the way you are getting pleasure now.”

He slammed into him harder now. Ross could do nothing but moan and arch, his hands gripping the sheets. George felt lit from inside, white hot. He looked at Ross, his head thrown back and throat exposed. He wanted to use his mouth and teeth to mark him, to show everyone ‘look he is mine; see what we do together.’ Instead he bit his lip. 

“George, harder,” Ross said desperately. 

George obliged, angling his hips and sending Ross crying out as he caught him right in the spot he wanted to. Oh the delicious, perfect drag of his cock in inside Ross. He wanted to do this forever. He knew from the sounds Ross was making that he was close, even without George’s hand on him. And then he could think nothing more because Ross had taken a handful of his hair and pulled him down on top of him, wrapping his legs around him and grinding himself down on George’s cock as he pushed his cock against him... _oh_ he could not hold on, he...he was so close and Ross was panting his name and moaning into his mouth and _fuck_ Ross was coming, hard, he was...hot and wet...and...Then Ross slid a finger inside him and _my God, fuck_ that was it. He shook all over as he spilled into Ross, lying hard against him, gasping into his mouth. 

They lay there for a moment, utterly spent, George still trembling from the intensity. Ross shifted a little underneath him, and George gathered himself; rolled off and lay beside Ross on the bed, their legs still tangled together. Ross’s eyes were closed and George devoured every detail of him while he could; the pulse jumping under the skin of his throat, the bruise on his temple from the fight at the tavern, the full redness of his mouth. 

“You are looking at me as if you wish to bite me,” laughed Ross who had opened an eye. 

“Another time, perhaps,” said George, and smiled. 

“Well, that is a promise,” said Ross, and untangled himself from George. George watched lazily as Ross dressed until Ross grabbed his arm and yanked him upright. “The masters might be slacking presently,” he said, “But they will notice if we are both absent from Geography altogether. Dress yourself and let us go.”

George did.  
_________________

Two days later, William was missing at breakfast. John Taylor got a letter from home that sent him gasping and gossiping to anyone who would listen: the Trelawnys were bankrupt, their mine seized by Warleggans Bank. William was to leave school immediately and his father might go to prison. 

The news travelled around the school like wildfire. George thanked god that there were only a few days remaining of term. Although William had been almost universally disliked, the boys were shocked at the consequences his family were suffering. 

Luckily they had classroom lessons all morning - Maths, English, French - which made avoiding Ross and the other boys more easy. 

Ross finally cornered George in the corridor before lunch. 

“William’s family are ruined, utterly,” said Ross. 

George could see his anger, barely concealed, and felt his own temper begin to rise. 

“It would have happened anyway. This merely hastened it.”

“You cannot know that. Did you tell your father to do this?”

“No! Of course I did not. William’s father is a drinker, a gambler and a degenerate. He borrowed against his mine till he could borrow no more, and then he baulked at paying. And his son is no better - a blackmailer and a violent bully. My father lent him the money honestly, and was within his right to call in the debt.”

“Mr Trelawny employs a hundred men in that mine. Now a hundred men need work and a hundred families will go hungry.”

“That gives me no pleasure and you know it was not my aim,” George said. “All this was done to protect us both.”

“To protect us both? What do _I_ need protection from? I can weather any number of silly rumours. I was not afraid of William’s threats. This was done for your own interests and I wish you would own it!”

“And why should I _not_ want to see him destroyed?” returned George, losing his temper at last. “He beat me and tormented me from the moment he laid eyes on me. He despised me for my background, he treated me worse than a dog! He...he degraded me in every way possible.” George closed his eyes briefly and turned away, assaulted by the memory of William pressing against him, trapping him, hot breath in his face. He opened them again and saw that Ross had fallen silent. He continued, calmer now, wanting to placate Ross. 

“I did not expect my father and my uncle to go so far, I rather thought he would merely frighten Mr Trelawny, threaten to call in the debts. I did not think Uncle Cary would take the mine. The mine is still profitable, the men will find work with the new owner I am sure.”

Ross shook his head. “It does not seem fair, for your family to have so much power over the lives of so many others.”

“Oh and your family does not, I suppose? All that land, the mines, the workers and the tenants? You have had power over the lives of others for hundreds of years! My family are merely acting as the gentry do.”

“You are mistaken. Ruthlessness is not the mark of a gentleman.”

“Oh it it hopeless, talking of this with you. Surely our friendship is more important than all this...” 

“What do you mean by that?”

“What’s this?” said Francis, coming up to them. “Are you talking of William? He has left already, you know. A carriage came for him after breakfast.”

“That will please you, George,” said Ross.

“ _None_ of this pleases me. And I am not responsible for it either.”

“No, you had your father do it instead. Very clever.”

“Ross!” said Francis shocked. “That is unfair. Why would this be George’s fault? As I heard, the debts William’s father had were terrible and he was refusing to pay. He gambled his mine away.”

Ross said nothing further, but glared at them both and stalked into the dining hall. 

George looked gratefully at Francis. “I do not understand Ross sometimes,” he said. “It is as if he hates me.”

“He cannot bear anything he sees as injustice,” Francis said with a shrug. “It is the miners out of work he is angry about. He sees your family’s bank as...well. I would not take it to heart.” He clapped a warm hand on George’s shoulder, and George wished fleetingly that he had fallen for Francis instead of Ross. Francis was not so high minded, not so volatile. 

“Come George,” Francis said. “Let us have lunch, even if it is cold mutton. Everything is worse on an empty stomach.”  
_________________

But a full stomach seemed to do nothing to cure Ross’s anger with George, or George’s resentment and misery at being accused of such callousness. Ross avoided George like the plague and the withdrawal of his favour was like torture, as if the sun had gone in and was never to come out again. How could it have gone so wrong between them?

The last day of term arrived. George, his trunk packed and his carriage ordered, could not bear it any longer; he knew he was not to return to school the next year and this would be his only opportunity to talk to Ross again in private. Desperately, George hunted him down. 

He found him at last in the upper corridor, carving his initials into the window frame with a pocket knife. George watched for a moment before interrupting. “Ross.”

Ross cast a look over his shoulder. “You are come to say good-bye I suppose?” he said it carelessly as if it did not matter. 

George took a deep breath to tamp down his anger. “Let us not leave on bad terms. Surely we can put this behind us.”

“Oh, I bear you no ill will, George, I just do not think we shall have much to do with each other from now on.”

“But that is not true,” said George earnestly. “Our families could be great friends. If nothing else, we could help your father out of the financial difficulty he finds himself in presently.” 

“Oh you have weighed and calculated my father’s needs already I see? Worked out the advantage they could give you?”

George flushed red. “I am offering _help_ , not…”

“I would not take ‘help’ from Warleggans Bank. I would have to be desperate.” Ross stopped carving and stabbed his knife hard into the window frame making George jump. 

“I don’t know why you must be so pigheaded about this. Why cannot you just accept what I…”

“Because it is more than that, as you well know!” stormed Ross, turning to him. “ I see the way you look at me, like you want to possess me. And I won’t be owned.”

“I do not want to _possess_ you, I...” said George, swallowing down the _I love you_ that threatened to burst from him. It sat like a lump in his throat. 

“I can never make you out. You seem to have a heart…” Ross placed a hand on George’s chest, and George startled back in shock. “And you are so abandoned when we...are together. But yet you give nothing away about yourself, who knows what secrets you keep. And you are so ruthless, so competitive. You are my ally now, but if you were to turn against me, I do not know what you would do. Look what you did to William.”

George could not have felt more raw if he had been flayed. All the failings that he knew he had but hoped were hidden, taken out, thrown at him. The secret he kept, his love, twisted by Ross into something sinister. He felt tears prick at his eyes but blinked rapidly to contain them.

“I do not owe you every secret in my head. You are cruel to take me apart so,” he said. “What I did to William saved us both - and you know what happened was not by my instruction. I don’t know why you are always so uncharitable to me.”

Ross scrubbed his hand across his face. He seemed deflated all of a sudden. “I don’t know either. You know I have a temper. I can’t seem to keep it when I’m around you.”

“That is not my fault, it is yours. And I only made the suggestion to offer help.”

“To help me be beholden to you.”

“My God Ross, you are so determined that I am against you!”

“When I am with you I feel so sure of you,” Ross said, and for a fleeting second looked infinitely sad.

“But you _can_ be sure of me,” George said, and Ross stepped towards him then, tangled fingers in his hair and kissed him hard. George melted against him thinking _this could be the last time._

“I want you,” murmured Ross, “But I cannot trust you.”

“You have no reason not to,” George said, “I have never done anything untrustworthy to you.” He bit down on Ross’s bottom lip, knowing it excited him, and stroked his hands up under Ross’s half untucked shirt, feeling the warm skin jump under his touch. Ross let out a quiet moan and kissed George even more deeply, before he seemed to gather himself. 

“But you happily deceive others. And the Trelawnys…”

“Oh!” George pushed Ross away from him then. Ross took hold of George’s arm to steady himself. “Would if I never heard you mention them again! Yes, they are ruined. What does it matter?” He felt like stamping his foot with rage. Couldn’t Ross _see?_ Must he spell everything out? 

“ It was done for you. If my family were destroyed by William’s rumours, if we lost all social standing, then I could not remain your friend. I would be banished from your circles. The Trelawnys were a small price to pay for our friendship. Don’t you see?”

Ross was staring at him, horrified. 

“I...I wish I had never begun this between us,” he said. “What you are saying, it cannot be true.”

“Well, you did begin it. And you have enjoyed it.”

“ You listen to me,” said Ross, furious, shaking George slightly. “I have Elizabeth now. You stay away from me. I want nothing more to do with you.”

“ A moment ago you wanted me,” George said. He stroked a hand down Ross’s face and Ross flinched away. “You can still have me. I know you always want me when you are angry.”

“Not any more, I am done with you.”

“You cannot just forget all this,” George looked into Ross’s dark eyes, searching for the lie. “You cannot truly think that you can.”

“Oh I can. And I will.”

“No. You will think of me,” George said it quietly, like a curse. “When you are with Elizabeth. With _any_ woman.”

“Why would I think of you? I’ve _had_ you,” Ross snarled. 

Francis found them then. Ross let go of George’s arm and George stalked to the window to compose himself. He was trembling all over. 

“Oh tell me you are not arguing again, the two of you?” he said with amusement. “What is it this time? Black is white and white is black? Surely you do not want to begin the holiday this way?”

Getting no answer he raised his eyebrows but did not press further. 

“Ross, the carriage father sent is here. You’re to come now.”

“Well George,” said Ross carelessly. “We shall see each other before long I am sure.”

“Good-bye then,” George said, twisting his mouth into a smile.

“Yes, good-bye George,” said Francis more kindly. “I will write to you directly I get home, it will be splendid if you can visit. Ross, if we get this fellow to hurry we can be at father’s for supper. It is Sunday you know and there will be beef.”

And they were gone. Ross did not even glance backwards. 

That was it. Done. 

George did cry then. Humiliatingly, pathetically, sobs wracking and tearing him, his face crumpled like a child. The thought of how ridiculous anyone would think him for doing it only made it worse. How he despised himself. 

In his empty calm afterwards he sat at the windowsill and cooled his face against the pane. His fingers idly traced the carved initials. 

He told himself that this was an end of it. None of this had come to any good. 

It had ended it as it had begun, he supposed. With all the important things unsaid. Half truths and deceptions. He had protected his secret, saved his family name from any scandal. Made an enemy for life in William. Lost Ross entirely. Lost his heart. What was it Harry had said? _I like him better than anyone I ever met...and it feels like I could die from it._


	6. Pilloried

The carriage his father had sent for him had arrived late, and George hadn’t reached home until after dark. The house seemed utterly unwelcoming – the front door locked and every light extinguished. _Some homecoming_ , he thought. He rang the bell and after a couple of moments waiting, he dragged his trunk into the porch, and headed around to the kitchen door. 

The kitchen was comfortingly warm and he wished he could linger. He’d always felt most comfortable in that room, with the bustle of the cook and the maids. They were all asleep he supposed. He carried on into the house and up the wide stair to his room. The study door was ajar as he passed it, and a light came from within. Taking a breath, he stepped inside. 

“You have returned,” his father said without looking up from the papers he was reading at his desk. He sat absolutely upright at his desk, his white powdered wig in place, not a button undone for comfort.

George did not say anything. He looked around for his Uncle. 

“Cary is not here. He says you are to come and see him in the morning.” 

“My trunk is outside, sir,” said George. His father, still not looking up, rang the bell for one of the servants.

The silence lengthened. 

“I shall go to bed now,” George said at last. His father gave a nod and George retreated from the room. 

The cold indifference was worse than the rage he had imagined. 

George opened the door to his bedroom and looked around. No fire had been lit to welcome him, and his bed had not been aired. The room smelt stale from disuse. George went to the window and flung it open, thinking momentarily of climbing out of it and running off into the dark. Instead he turned and looked for a taper to light a candle.

The bed looked ornate and enormous compared to the narrow beds at school, with its four posts and canopy above. For a moment his eyes flickered closed over a vision of Ross bending him over the bed, only the front of his breeches open as he casually fucked George into insensibility. But no. George rubbed his eyes, and swayed a little with tiredness. He could not have these thoughts any more. 

He did not let himself think about what his Uncle might have in store for him the next day. It all felt too much. He took off his coat and kicked off his boots. Too tired to undress further, he crawled under the bedcover and fell asleep.

 

\--------------

 

George had barely had time to wash his face the next morning when he received his summons to Uncle Cary’s study. Dread sat like lead in his stomach as he entered the book-lined room. 

He was not met by silence this time. 

“So what have you to say for yourself?” his Uncle said abruptly. 

George stayed mute. His Uncle stared at him for a moment, then marched across the room to him and slapped him hard in the face. George stumbled back. 

“Your father and I did not send you to school to become a sodomite,” his Uncle said. 

“Uncle…” George began, lifting his hand to his flaming cheek. 

“Do not bother to lie,” his Uncle said. “I have seen this in you since you were young. Should have beaten it out of you long ago.” 

To George’s horror his Uncle turned and picked up a thick leather strap from his desk. 

“No! Please. You cannot - I am almost eighteen. You _cannot_ …” 

“Oh you wish to be tried as a man, is that it? You know what they do to sodomites?” 

George knew. The Pillory. Even Ross who feared nothing, feared that. 

“You’d rather be carted through the streets, covered in shit and filth? Tied at the pillory for the mob to do as they wish to you? You would not survive it; they would break you to pieces.” 

“But you would never let it happen,” George said, his heart thudding. “For the sake of the family name…” 

“The only thing saving you,” his Uncle said. “You must be cured of these unnatural appetites George. You are an abomination.” He ran the leather strap through his hand. 

George felt lightheaded with terror. He knew how deeply that strap would cut into him, how the pain would sear through him, how he would cry out despite himself, and how the wounds would burn for days afterwards. 

“I... I’ll pray. I’ll go to Church and pray to be cured. Don’t… _don’t_ …” 

“By God George I would hope you already pray to be cured every night!” his Uncle roared. 

George shuddered with fear. His Uncle was right. Why had he not prayed before? He had thought himself safe among the other boys - but it was a false safety. And he was different to the others. They practiced those things - those abominations - out of necessity. He did them because he _liked_ them. And look what it had led to. William’s abuse. The Trelawnys’ ruin. Ross’s disgust. 

He scrubbed a hand across his face. Yes. This stopped now. He must submit. Though how a beating would stop all this he did not know. But he must try. 

“I will, I’ll pray,” he said. “And…” he gestured towards his Uncle’s strap. “If you think it will help.” 

“Against the wall, then,” his Uncle said. George walked over to the side of the room away from the window while his Uncle closed the door to the study. George faced the wall and braced his arms against it. As his Uncle approached he closed his eyes and prayed.

 

\--------------

George sat upright at the desk that afternoon, working on the books. His shirt felt wet against his back, and he could not tell if it was perspiration or one of the wounds bleeding again. 

He dipped his pen in the inkwell, pausing until the trembling in his hand calmed, before beginning on a new column of figures. 

His Uncle had not shown any mercy to George that morning. George knew he would not; he was already in a temper before he lifted the belt. Twelve strokes, his Uncle had said, though George lost count after five. He had not confined them to George’s back either; the belt had torn his skin from thigh to neck. 

George had not cried at least. But he had been sick, just after his Uncle threw his belt to the floor and slammed out of the study. He staggered to his room afterwards, peeling off his shirt inch by painful inch, surveying the damage, the blood. What a badge of honour this would have been at school, he had thought wryly. He had hidden the stained shirt in his school trunk, too ashamed that one of the servants might see it and wonder. Or worse; pity him. 

There was no sound in the study other than the ticking of the mantle clock and the sound of George’s pen scraping on the ledger. His Uncle was utterly silent, reading some papers. George bit his lip and closed his eyes as he shifted slightly in his seat; any change in pressure sent the wounds there screaming again. He took some quiet, shallow breaths, willing himself not to feel faint. Only an hour more of this and his Uncle had an appointment in town and George could go upstairs and press a cold cloth to the painful heat of his skin. 

He dipped the nib of the pen in the inkwell again, copied the next row of figures, keeping his eyes lowered. He could barely look at his Uncle, he was so consumed with hate for him. The thrashing had done nothing to temper his feelings for Ross - through the pain he could tell that much - oh, how he would give anything to never see his family again. 

But he was trapped. His only relief, only escape would to ensure his own wealth at all costs. Ross was very wrong about the pursuit of wealth - he did not understand the freedoms it bought.

And so George applied himself to the columns of figures before him.

___________

 

Francis wrote the next week, inviting George to come picnicking and sea-bathing with a group of their friends. 

George declined. Even if he could get away with not bathing - and he certainly could not bathe, with the welts on his back barely healed - he was still in too much pain to sit upon a horse long enough to get there. Recklessly, he instead invited Francis up to town for a visit without asking permission. His Uncle would be torn between suspicion of George’s motives and greed for such an influential friendship, but George knew greed would win. George imagined Francis casually mentioning to Ross that he was going to visit George, and innocently extending the invitation to him. “George won’t mind,” George could almost hear him say. “We can go to the tavern, make a night of it.” And perhaps Ross had thawed by now; after all, weeks had passed. Surely he could not be so stubborn. Perhaps he had all but forgotten their argument, or realised George had been right about William, or… 

“Sir, you are to come up to your Uncle’s study.” One of the housemaids hovered at the doorway, interrupting his flight of fancy. My God could he not even have a moment alone with his own thoughts?

“Very well,” he snapped, dropping his pen back into the inkwell. He sealed the letter to Francis quickly and handed it to the maid. “See that this goes out in the first post,” he said. The maid curtseyed and backed out of the room. 

George knew what this was about. The visit his Uncle had threatened him with for weeks had come at last. And he was right - the summons to the study was to tell him to be ready to leave at seven o’clock. 

“We will make an evening of it,” said his Uncle, and George flinched at the idea. As if this was some wonderful treat, a visit to a brothel. He knew already he would fail the test. Even if by some miracle he could have tricked himself into being aroused by one of the girls, the knowledge that his Uncle would be there, waiting for him to finish would dampen the most ardent desire. 

Perhaps he could refuse, on grounds of his new-found Christian morality. But one look at his Uncle’s face and he knew the excuse would not hold water. His Uncle often seemed to know what he was thinking before he knew it himself. 

Three hours later George found himself standing in a pleasant, if slightly grubby, parlour with four young women being paraded before him by Madam. He had been unable to eat any dinner in anticipation of the evening, and his stomach lurched in panic again now. 

“What is your pleasure young sir?” The Madam was saying again. 

“Tis a Molly House that one needs,” said one of the women in a low voice, taking in George’s neat clothing and his fair curls. George did not look at her, but felt more humiliated than ever. 

“Hush. Look to his Uncle. Tis him we need please, not the boy.” 

“Her,” George said at last, indicated a slight, unthreatening looking girl, younger than the rest. She nodded and held out her hand. George took it and let her take him away, too miserable to look around at his Uncle to see if he was pleased. 

She led him into a quiet chamber and closed the door. Without warning she began to undo her bodice and gestured to him to undress too. 

“Wait…” George said. 

“You wish to stay dressed?” she said. “Some do.” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

She crossed the room, slipping out of her dress, leaving only her underclothes between George and her naked skin. Thin though she was, there seemed to be so much of her all of a sudden. He did not know what to do and felt a sickly cold come over him. 

Going up on tip-toe she kissed him. 

It was all wrong. Everything. Her mouth and body so soft and slight, her kiss so gentle. He turned his head sharply away. 

“Not keen on kisses either?” she tilted her head enquiringly to one side and pressed a hand between his legs. George took a step backwards. 

“My...Uncle,” he stammered. “He wanted this. Not I. Can we...would you perhaps say that we did but...? I will pay you more, of course.” 

She looked at him searchingly for a moment. George swallowed. 

“Wait,” she said. Then she screamed and slapped George on the face. 

“God! What…” 

The door flew open and the Madame and Uncle Cary came into the room, followed by a dark haired young man. 

“Elsa? Are you alright?” asked Madame, “What has he done?” 

“He is an animal!” Elsa cried out. “I will not entertain him without protection. Mark must stay at the door.” 

“I did nothing...I,” spluttered George. 

“A little too eager, eh George?” his Uncle called out, grinning horribly at him. 

“Very well,” the Madame said and Mark stepped inside the room. He had a pleasant face but was tall and well-muscled. Was he there to beat him? George felt hopelessly confused. 

The Madame took Uncle Cary’s arm. “Come away,” she said. “Your nephew will behave himself now, I am sure.” 

She swung the door shut and George stared from Elsa to Mark and back again. “What…” 

But before he could say another thing, Mark was across the room and kissing him.  George melted against him for a moment; to be pressed to a strong young male body again was too much temptation. But then he pulled himself away and stared at Elsa who was smiling at them both.

“What are you doing?” demanded George. His heart raced. “Is this blackmail? I have no money of my own, and my Uncle will give you nothing.” 

“Tisn’t blackmail you fool,” said Elsa, not unkindly. “You are not the first boy I have met who prefers the other. Madame knows why Mark is here, she will keep your Uncle away.” She took herself over to another door in the room. “I will retire in here,” she said. “God knows I need the rest. Knock when you need me.” 

She disappeared through the door and George and Mark were alone. 

“Tis pleasant to have a handsome young man,” Mark said, smiling and pushing his dark curls out of his eyes. “Tis a rare treat.” He began to undo George’s waistcoat. George, still in shock, merely stood and let him. Mark slipped warm strong hands under George’s shirt, running thumbs along his ribs, finding his nipples and stroking them. George breathed out a sigh and Mark kissed him hard and insistently. He should not be…he should not allow…but the soft heat of the boy’s mouth was so arousing, and the feather-light strokes of his hands over George’s skin were intoxicating. 

Slipping George’s shirt over his head, Mark grazed his lips down George’s chest and stomach. George’s insides turned liquid. The other boy knelt and opened George’s breeches with a practiced hand, freeing his cock and eagerly sucking George deep into his hot, wet mouth. George let out a low moan and Mark pulled George’s breeches down further, cupping his arse and holding him still as he began to suck in earnest. _Oh,_ he was taking him so deep. It was so…He had not been touched in weeks, had been trying not to touch himself either, but this was so hot, so perfect. George grabbed two fistfuls of Mark’s hair, rocking his cock deeper into his mouth. He looked down and Mark was looking up at him, a teasing look in his eyes as he swallowed George down again and again, moving a hand to cup George’s balls and another to hold him firm by the hip bone. _My God._ George could feel the familiar ache of his climax begin to build, and looking down at Mark’s dark head he could almost imagine... _no he would not think it_ , but oh, _oh_ he had always wanted Ross to do this and Ross never had.   

But now the thought was there he could not shake it, and the idea of Ross’s hands on him, Ross on his knees like this in front of George, his mouth, his _tongue_...and yes, oh God, yes he was going to… 

With a cry he spent into Mark’s eager mouth, held steady by his strong arms even while he shook with the relief of it. 

“I would’ve thought you’d want to fuck me, sir,” said Mark when George opened his eyes again.   

“Give me twenty minutes and I shall,” said George, kicking off his boots and breeches and collapsing onto the bed. 

Mark gave a small whoop and jumped onto the bed with him, whipping off his clothes and burrowing under the covers. “You’ll have to pay me more, mind,” he said.

 

\---------------------

 

“Aren’t you afraid of the Pillory, Mark?” George asked him afterwards. 

“A-course I am. But I would swallow poison rather than be taken to it. Madame has said she’d give it me.” 

“But that would be suicide. Then you would go to hell.” 

“The Pillory is Hell. Hell’s not a place, it’s just things that human beings do to each other. The rest is lies and I won’t believe it. Not when the lie denies me all the pleasures of my heart." 

“It is the pleasure of your heart to be used by men like this?” 

“No, but…” he stroked a hand across George’s stomach. “Not all of them use me. You didn’t. You delight in touching me and in me touching you. Tis very agreeable. So there is my pleasure, you see. And I hope I can be one of yours.” 

“I hope so too,” said George with feeling. He sat forward, looking around for his clothes. 

“Whatever happened to you?” asked Mark. He traced a hand along one of the welts on George’s back. 

“Oh,” George said, feeling himself flush with shame. “It is nothing. My Uncle has a bad temper.” 

“He must have a worse temper than the devil himself. What can someone as pleasant as you have done to get such a beating?” 

George just shrugged and smiled wryly. “I am not always considered pleasant.” 

Mark’s eyes widened, the penny dropping. “He is trying to beat it out of you. And he brought you here…” Mark began to chuckle, “...to finish the job. Tis working a treat, is it not?” 

George began to laugh too. “It isn’t funny. He would flay me alive if he could see me this moment.” 

“He’ll never suspect. Here,” Mark hopped out of bed and George could not help but admire his retreating back. Mark bent over the dressing table in the corner, rummaged in a drawer. 

“The very thing,” he said triumphantly, holding up a small pot of lip rouge. Tilting the looking glass towards himself, the boy dipped a finger in and painted his mouth with it. George’s breath caught when he turned back to him, his mouth deliciously, obscenely red. 

“Where shall I kiss you?” Mark said. He pounced back onto the bed, straddling George. George was too distracted by his hardening cock to answer. 

“Your throat for a start,” Mark said, and tugged George’s head back by his hair to get at it. 

“And here, just below your ear,” Mark continued, placing another lingering kiss on him. “And your cheek.” Another kiss. “And of course,” Mark said, grazing his mouth over George’s opening lips, “Mostly here.” 

George let out a quiet moan as Mark pressed his lips hard against his, pushing his tongue into George’s mouth and sliding both his hands into George’s hair. George was just arching against him, just wondering at how he could possibly be this hard _again,_ when there was a great banging at the door. 

“Mark,” said Madame. “Mr Warleggan wishes to be on his way. Tell Elsa to send the young gentleman out.” 

With a groan Mark released George and climbed off the bed. George felt like he might cry with frustration. He lay for a moment, waiting for his cock to subside. 

Mark had dressed quickly and was washing his mouth with a handkerchief dipped in the washbasin. He glanced at George over his shoulder and smiled. 

“Covering our tracks,” he said. 

George reluctantly got up and began to dress. As he fussed with the buttons on his waistcoat, Mark took him by the waist and tugged him over to the mirror. 

“There’s the face of one who’s been debauched by a lady,” he said with glee, and George saw what he meant. His mouth was stained red and there were kiss marks on his neck and face. He laughed out loud and Mark kissed the nape of his neck before pushing him away saying, “I’ll not start us off again.” 

George smoothed his hair and picked up his coat and hat. He hesitated. “Do I…” 

“Pay Madam,” Mark said. George looked at him uncomfortably, his hat in one hand. Mark took his hat from him and placed it gently on George’s head. 

“Don’t be awkward. Madam’ll charge double for me in any case - danger money. And I’ll be upping my prices for next time, now I know what you’re like.” 

“Oh,” said George. 

“ _Rich_ , I mean,” said Mark grinning, and George relaxed. The door banged again. 

“Hold onto your hat,” Mark said, and grabbed George roughly by the scruff of the neck. He wrenched the door open and propelled George out of it, shoving him roughly towards his Uncle. 

“Here he is and the devil may take him,” Mark said gruffly as George stumbled. 

“Well then George, what have you been about?” Said his Uncle, looking delighted. “Who would have thought you had it in you?” He roared with laughter. 

George glanced at Mark who gave him the tiniest of winks. He turned back to his Uncle. “Shall we go?” 

“We shall before you cost me any more money,” Uncle Cary said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And before we are barred from the place.” 

“You are always welcome back, as long as the young gentleman behaves hisself,” Madam said, holding the door open for them. Uncle Cary laughed again, stuffing a further tip into Madam’s hand, and climbed into the carriage waiting for them. 

George followed him, unsettled by his joviality. He could not remember ever seeing his Uncle laugh like this before. And for him to _tip_ …it seemed the whole world was topsy-turvy. 

“It seems this was just what you needed, George,” his Uncle said, banging on the roof to signal to the driver he could drive off. 

“Yes, I believe it was,” said George and looked out of the window to hide his smile.

 ------------

When they got home he excused himself from supper and went straight to his room. His Uncle ushered him on his way, joking about how tired George must be. How foul he was. 

Stripping off his clothes, he looked at himself in the mirror. He could see a bruise Mark had sucked onto his neck, and he touched it with his fingertips. With his other hand he ran a thumb along his red-stained lips, remembering the kisses that had stained them. What a surprising night. He felt desired and desirable, when he had expected to feel humiliated and disgusted. Sleeping with Mark had been so straightforward, so...fun. Mark had merely admired him for being rich and handsome, not as some horrible, twisted creature. There was no animosity, no secrets, no shame - well not between the two of them, anyway. The rest of the world was still out there of course. But, still.  

He had not known that money could buy this kind of feeling. Perhaps at last he had begun to exorcise Ross from his mind.


	7. Wild Justice

Francis had responded to George’s letter enclosing an invitation to a ball.

“ _Tom Frobisher from school asked me to pass this on to you_ ,” he wrote. “ _Do come George, I get up to town so rarely at the moment so won’t have another chance to see you for an age - father has a bee in his bonnet about me learning the mining business and it is all a terrible bore_.”

George could not avoid telling his Uncle of the invitation, and for the second time in as many weeks, experienced the strange feeling of his Uncle’s approval.

“This is the beginning for us now,” his Uncle said. “Acceptance into circles which have been closed to us. At least that school was good for something.”

“So I am to go,” said George, keeping his voice as expressionless as he could.

“Certainly. And you are eighteen years old now - perhaps you will find yourself a rich wife, give the poor girls at the whorehouse some rest,” said his Uncle and George forced a smile.

He had turned eighteen the week before with no fanfare and almost no acknowledgement. The only difference now was that he had an allowance, even if he had little idea what to spend it on. A suit of clothes for the ball to help attract a suitable wife, he told himself. Though at the back of his mind a voice sang a litany of ‘ _Ross will be there, Ross will be there_.” and against his will, a bubble of excitement rose inside him.

 

\----------------------

 

George had forced himself not to arrive too early on the evening of the ball, even though he had been in a state of nervous anticipation that whole day. Alighting from his carriage he thanked God that he had spent the money on a new suit, for the other guests were dressed up within an inch of their lives. 

The house too was looking its finest. Each room was lavishly lit, and decorated with hundreds of hot-house flowers. Though George had never been inside the Frobisher’s mansion before except on business, he knew exactly how much this ball was costing the family. He knew the price of the carpet under his feet, and the cost of the wine they had bought from France and how much they had paid for the ice that kept the pine-apples and ices cold in the dining room. It was a strange position to be in, appreciating the decadence while knowing all the frantic mechanics that worked away behind it. And how much money had been borrowed from his Bank to pay the bill for it.  

One day the Warleggans would throw balls, he told himself. And the local gentry would fall over themselves to attend.

He saw Francis almost at once, standing in a crowd of school friends. Francis saw him at the same moment and rushed over to greet him.

“George! I thought you were never coming. We were just making up a table for cards, will you come? Or perhaps you want some wine first.”

“I would,” said George, glowing at Francis’s warm welcome. “And I would like to see the ballroom too.”

“Oh I hope you are not going to dance all night. There is no one worth dancing with in any case, just the same girls one sees at all of these things. Though perhaps you would take pity on my sister, she never seems to have a partner.”

George was only half listening as Francis led him into the ballroom. His eyes scanned the room again and again for sight of a head of unruly curls, but he could see nothing.

“Who do you look for George? You are barely attending to a word I am saying. I hope I have not become a bore, being stuck at home all the time,” said Francis at last, half laughing.

“I was half afraid William would be here,” George said, hoping to distract Francis from the true purpose of his inattention.

“Unlikely. William is become a Customs Officer; did you not know?” said Francis.

“I did not. But there is a job that will suit him down to the ground,” said George. “All that power to penalise and prosecute.”

“God, yes. He always was a damnable bully. Now he’ll get paid for it,” said Francis. He paused. “I do wish you and Ross had not had such a falling out over William,” he said. “You were friends at school. I’m sure you could be again.”

“I am willing, but I am afraid he is not,” said George, trying to keep his face from betraying anything.

“Well, do not be so sure. He asked me if you would attend tonight and I told him you would.”

George felt a stab of surprise and - annoyingly - hope.

“I did not even realise he was here,” he said, forcing his voice not to tremble.

“He is somewhere about. Wrapped around Elizabeth most likely,” Francis said, a slight frown marring his sunny countenance.

Almost as Francis finished speaking, Ross and Elizabeth appeared through a door at the far side of the room.

_Elizabeth_. He saw her at last. How beautiful she was, George thought, and so _alive_. Not some stuck up little spoiled beauty as he had told himself. She was elegance itself, with an intelligent, open face, and her face was tilted to Ross, laughing at something he was saying.

It was not Elizabeth’s beauty and intellect which caused his stomach to churn however. It was the expression on Ross’s face that threw him. He had never seen Ross look at anyone like that, with such a softness in his eyes and true happiness in his smile. The annoying little flicker of hope that had arisen in him at Francis’s words spluttered and died at that moment.

He turned sharply away. “Perhaps I shall catch up with Ross another time,” he said to Francis, and took a great gulp of the wine Francis had given him. “Let’s to the gaming table. I have not bankrupted you in an age, Francis.”

Francis gave a bark of laughter. “Oh, is that how it will be?” he said. “We shall see. Bill Westland is waiting to get some revenge on you as well. I hope your pockets are well lined tonight.”

 

\-----------------------

 

Two hours later, after a riotous game of Twelves from which he had emerged victorious, George had braved the ballroom again. Francis had introduced him to his sister Verity, and Verity had accepted his invitation to dance, flushing almost as red as the wine George was drinking. 

He was only too aware of the mutterings and murmurings that George Warleggan, the grandson of a blacksmith, had had the temerity to dance with a Poldark. Though Verity did not give a hint of being discomposed by these comments, she was shy to the point of being almost struck dumb and George drifted away as their conversation faltered.

Having not been introduced to anyone else, he stood awkwardly before turning on his heel and leaving the ballroom.

His first ball was not proving to be a success. Though it had been fun to see Bill and John and Francis again, he felt a yearning for something more from the night, something he could not quite name. Oh what was the point of this at all, he wondered. Other than Francis and his school friends, the gentry could barely lower themselves to speak to him, and he was damned if he’d stand and pine over Ross like a lovesick fool. He thought of going to the retiring room, but could not face any more chilly, distancing smiles and blank stares from those who did not wish to associate with him. He decided instead to go outside for some air.

He walked along the terrace before descending down a flight of marble steps into the warm darkness of the garden. He walked around the edge of a fountain, flicking one of the coins he had won at cards into the water. He should make a wish, he thought, watching as the ripples spread out in all directions. But the only thing he wanted to wish for was absolutely impossible. 

He suddenly became aware of footsteps behind him, and felt a hand clasp on his wrist as a strong arm whirled him around. His first wild thought was that William had somehow found him and he struggled violently, panic rising in him. Then his eyes focused on the figure before him.

_Ross_.

“What are you about?” George demanded, twisting his wrist out of Ross’s grasp.

“I am in the mood for a little company, Warleggan.”

“Would Elizabeth not oblige?” George snarled.

“I did not ask her,” Ross said, a wicked smile spreading across his face. His eyes flickered to George’s mouth and back up again, and George felt himself giving way even as Ross looked him over.

“What…” George swallowed as his mouth dried. “What sort of company?”

Ross said nothing but grabbed George’s wrist again and yanked him into the walled garden they stood beside.

“Where is Elizabeth now, then?” George managed.

“Her mother has taken her home. Shut up about her,” said Ross, putting a hand on the back of George’s neck and tugging George towards him. He dipped his head to suck gently on George’s neck just below his ear and George reeled back against the wall. Ross pushed up against him.

“Now I have you where I want you,” he said. “I always liked you trapped against a wall. You squirm so nicely.”

George felt faint with lust, could not think of a single clever retort. Instead he tilted his head back and looked Ross directly in the eye.

“You think you can just have me, after months of ignoring me?” he said. “And the things you said to me when last we saw each other?”

“I meant them all and I have not changed my mind,” said Ross. “But seeing you tonight in all your finery, like the worst London dandy…”

“I am not dressed any differently to...”

“You know how I like to defile you when you are so neat and ordered,” Ross said. Before George could resist, Ross had grabbed a handful of his hair and was crushing George’s mouth against his own. Heat flamed through George’s whole body. My _God_. This was not the fumbling of two schoolboys any longer; they both knew what they wanted and how to take it from each other. George pressed a hand between Ross’s legs; he was hard as iron.

“You have been thinking about me,” he said, unable to keep the pleasure out of his voice. “I knew you would not be able to keep away.”

“I have barely given you a thought since school,” Ross said, a teasing note in his voice. “Until you walked in tonight wearing more silk than a courtesan.”

In retaliation George pressed his hand harder against Ross’s cock, beginning to stroke him. “Liar,” he said. “You sought me out especially.”

“Why would I do that?” Ross said a little breathlessly. “I told you I never once thought about you,” he ground into George’s hand, “...or your mouth on me, or the shameless little noises you make when you’re fucked…”

George’s head swam with arousal. “So what do you wish to do to me?” he murmured into Ross’s ear.

Ross only tugged him by the hair again to bring his mouth against his.

George let himself be kissed for a few moments longer before dragging his mouth away.

“Please, Ross, for God’s sake,” George said. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to have you,” Ross said, “On your hands and knees. And I want to hear you enjoying it.”

George felt as though his legs would give way beneath him.

“Yes,” he managed.  

“Here,” said Ross, taking them both into the further darkness of an alcove. He kissed George again until George could barely breathe. They tore at each other’s clothes. George was unfamiliar with the fastenings on his new suit and he fumbled, his hands trembling as though he was ill - and perhaps he was. Perhaps it was a kind of sickness, this lust he felt. Ross helped him tug his breeches open impatiently, and George could feel his panting breaths against his neck.

“Now, George,” he gasped and George turned obediently and dropped to his knees. In the darkness he could barely see a thing, but felt Ross stroking wet fingers across his hole before pushing them in. He took hold of his own cock then, the push and drag of the fingers almost finishing him then and there. There was no slow preparation or counting this time as Ross pressed his cock inside him but George did not care. He wanted it hard and fast and punishing. 

“Let me hear you George. I want to hear how you like it,” Ross said, leaning over him. George let himself moan aloud as Ross pushed in to the hilt. He knew from the gathering feeling inside him he would only last moments more. 

“ _Ross_ ,” he tried to say, but Ross was moving now, one hand on George’s waist, the other grabbing a handful of his hair, keeping him locked in place as Ross thrust into him. George gave himself over to it entirely; crying out with the pleasure of it, the roughness of it, the painful tug of his hair. He had let his own cock go, needing both hands on the ground to steady himself against Ross’s relentless fucking.

“You love this don’t you,” Ross said, moving his hand from George’s waist to his cock. George gave a groan of abandon. “Tell me, George.”

“I... _Oh_ ,” Ross’s grip around him was so tight, he could not think, “ _Please_ …” They had never fucked this hard or recklessly, even in their frantic couplings at school.

“Tell me,” Ross said again stroking George so hard that he could not hold back a moment longer.

“I... I love it. Oh _God_ Ross, I…” George could not speak. He began to come, spilling over Ross’s fist in helpless spurts, his whole body shaking. Ross released him, gripping both George’s hips tightly as he pushed himself to completion. George felt so sensitive that he almost could not bear Ross to go on, each thrust making him spill a little more, but Ross yanked George hard against him then, letting out a low moan, and spurting hot inside him.  

Ross pulled away almost immediately and George rested his head on his arms for a moment, before turning over and pulling his clothing back together.

“Is this how we greet each other now?” he said, and Ross began to laugh.

“It is better than arguing over William again surely,” he said.

“I am well able to do both,” said George. Ross held out a hand and helped him to his feet.

“Well then,” said George, trying to rub the stains off the knees of his breeches. It was no use, he would have to go directly to his carriage and home. He could not be seen in this state.  “Have we made it up? I let you have your way with me entirely, so I believe it would be only fair.”

“You put up such a protest too,” said Ross. “I could barely tell if you enjoyed it at all.”

“It was not unpleasant I suppose,” George said and started to smile. “I did not know you had seen me at all tonight. You were preoccupied.”

“I could hardly miss you in that waistcoat.”

“It is unfortunate you have little taste in clothing,” George said. “You might look almost presentable if you did. Or less like a vagrant at least.”

“You are sounding like my maiden aunt again George. I should introduce you one of these days.”

George stopped his needling of Ross for a moment. “Perhaps we should not do this again,” he said. “Elizabeth…”

Ross frowned and interrupted. “I swear you talk of her more than I do, George. We are not married yet. You and I, this was just…”

“Animal spirits,” George finished, a wry smile on his lips.

Ross shrugged and assented.

“What I wanted to say, was...I saw you and Elizabeth together,” George said. “You looked very well. I think you will be happy.”

Ross opened his mouth to say something, but was interupted by a shout from the garden, and a splash. George could hear Francis and some others roaring with laughter and Bill Westland shouting.

“Sounds as though they’ve put Bill in the fountain again,” Ross said. “When will he learn not to bet against Francis?”

“You’d best go and haul him out. The others will show no mercy,” George said.

“Yes. Well. Goodbye then George,” he said. George nodded at him, and he disappeared into the darkness, heading towards the hilarity and yelling.

George stood for a moment in the inky darkness of the garden, his body still trembling a little from their encounter. He tried to order his thoughts.

It felt like a conclusion, of sorts. They had had each other one more time. There was still animosity but George did not feel desperate about it. He loved him still, in a strange way, but he did not harbour any thoughts of the two of them together any longer. Ross just did not see things the same way and never would.  As long as they could be friends, he could bear it, he thought.

 

\------------------------

 

George had felt a weight lift from him since the night of the ball. The nastiness of the falling out with Ross had been dissipated by the truce they seemed to have struck. Though George saw him rarely, and there was not a repeat of the events of the night of the ball, there was no real ill-feeling either. 

His Uncle seemed to have lifted his scrutiny from George too and he was left to his own devices much more often. George made the very most of this, and of every penny of his allowance, not to mention the money he won at the gaming table, often from Francis. Considering how careful he was with the Bank’s money, his own flowed back out of his pockets as soon as it had flowed in. 

He could not admit that the reason for this was his weakness, the flaw in himself he had almost given up fighting. In other words, a boy. 

George had never quite plucked up the courage to go back to the brothel alone; he could not even think how to ask to see Mark again, and so he shied away from it entirely. But by chance he had seen Mark in the street on the way back from an appointment with his tailor and Mark had smiled at him so sweetly that he had felt compelled to stop for a moment and speak with him. In the light of the sunny afternoon George saw the coppery tint to Mark’s dark hair, and the way his eyes lit up at the sight of George. How handsome he was, George thought.  He had not noticed before the beauty of his full mouth with its ready smile, and the scattering of freckles across his nose.   

“You have never come back sir,” Mark said in a low voice. “Did you not enjoy it after all?” 

George felt a flush of heat as he recalled the time they had spent together. “I enjoyed it very much. I do not know why I did not come back again. Perhaps...perhaps I shall.” 

“Please do. Just ask for ‘Pamela’, Madam will know. And you can have me the whole night you know sir,” Mark said cheekily. “I won’t break the bank.” 

“More’s the pity,” George said and Mark’s eyes twinkled at him before he nodded and disappeared back into the crowded street. 

He had gone to see him that very night, and every night after that he could get away from his family. 

“I knew you’d come,” Mark had said, delightedly. “I thought it had to be that you were too shy to come back. It was so lovely the time before.” 

And it was lovely again, and every time. George could never have imagined being with a man to be so free from shame, but Mark was so easy to be with and genuinely glad to see him. And although there was a constant whisper in the back of his mind of “ _you buy him, just as you buy friends. Just as you will no doubt buy a wife_ ,” it always faded as soon as he saw Mark’s pleased smile and received one of his enthusiastic kisses. 

George could not help but be tender with him, however rough he’d liked things with Ross. With Ross it was the repression of feeling that had made it so intense; and the secrecy, the silence. But he could linger over Mark and it was delightful to take their time.  George enjoyed undressing him slowly, button by button, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin until the other boy trembled with anticipation, before moving on to the next. And Mark was so vocal, his sighs and moans so arousing. George loved to take him in his mouth and suck him lightly and slowly until Mark would beg ‘Oh sir, _sir_ ,” and he’d finish him off hard and fast while Mark cried out with pleasure. 

George always took him face to face, stroking him so that he’d come just as George reached his own completion. And he’d look so beautiful as he did George always thought; a pink flush on his throat, his dark fringed eyes closing, his full lips parted. It had surprised Mark the first time George had fucked him that way, but he had enjoyed it so much that George was surprised someone did not come to tell them to keep the noise down. 

“Most like me turned on my face,” he admitted as they had lain in bed afterwards, “And none do touch me as you do. It seems wrong for you to pay to give me such pleasure.” 

“They do not know what they miss,” George said. 

“Some things I keep just for you, sir,” said Mark with a smile and twined his fingers in George’s. George wondered if it could be true.  

Sometimes George would notice that Mark’s pale skin was bruised. Small blue marks on his waist or hips; fingerprints of other men.  George never asked about them, but he would trace the marks lightly with his fingers, pressing his lips to them gently as if trying to kiss them away. Mark’s eyes would close and he’d sigh, arching against George’s mouth. 

Now and again Mark would tell him tales of his clients, laughing heartily, and George could not believe how little he enjoyed hearing it. This is Mark’s _job_ , he told himself. _You_ are Mark’s job. _Do not forget it_.   

“One man took his horse’s bridle in, and tried to make me wear it. I said twould cost him one hundred guineas and he left in a rage. Can you picture it?” 

George forced a weak smile. 

“And another makes me call him ‘Captain’ and tells me I am a good little cabin boy. Oh thank god he doesn’t care whether I finish, for I am ‘most helpless with laughter when he’s at it. Filthy beggar.” 

George attempted to summon a laugh but was aware that his face only twisted into an odd expression. Mark tilted his head enquiringly at George, seeming to notice his discomfort, then moved over on the bed to sit beside him. 

“But there is one man,” he said, sliding his hands around George’s waist, “Who I would do the filthiest things for, should he ever ask it, for I cannot resist him.” He kissed George’s mouth as light as a feather and George’s heart thudded as though he had never been kissed before. If only he could think of any filthy things; he was always too drugged with lust when they were together to think of anything but Mark’s mouth and hands, and the strength of his arms and the beautiful curve and dip of his lower back. It was Mark who would say ‘I think you would like this, sir,” and then do something so outrageous and debauched with tongue and fingers that George would finish almost instantly, making an utterly shameful amount of noise. 

Some nights they would play cards afterwards - and Mark, it turned out, was just as sharp as George when it came to games. Mark would sneak some of Madam’s brandy and they would drink it and talk on and on into the night. Mark did not care or laugh if George’s accent slipped back to his childhood one after a couple of drinks. Of course you have to speak like the gentry if you want to deal in business with them. He did not scoff at George’s ambitions to make money. Who would not want money? He took George exactly as he was, with no prejudice and no judgement. 

_This feels like happiness_ , George thought one evening as they lay entwined together in Mark’s warm, candlelit room. The thought had barely formed before it was crowded out by others. _How can this be happiness when you can never be together? When you cannot know if he truly even wants you? You pay him. Whenever you indulge in this weakness you damn yourself, and him._

Yet the thoughts did not hold as much weight as they once had. They had lost the power to terrify him. He could not feel afraid of god while Mark was kissing him and stroking gentle circles onto his back. In truth he did not feel damned; he felt blessed.

 

********

 

But nothing can remain constant, as George discovered one evening some months later. 

George’s Uncle was away from home and George had barely been able to wait until the carriage had rumbled from their courtyard before setting off to see Mark. They could have the whole afternoon and evening together for once. George had brought some wine in anticipation. 

“Mark, Mr Warleggan is here,” Madam called into the back room. 

Mark came to the door, a wide-eyed wary look on his face. Seeing George, the wary look melted away, but he did not greet him with the grin he usually did. 

He held out a hand to George and led him to his room, which was in some disarray. Pieces of a broken chair were piled next to the fire, and there was a wine stain on the carpet. 

George ran a hand down Mark’s back, pulling him closer. Mark flinched. 

“What is wrong?” said George, releasing him.

“Nothing. It’s... “

George’s heart thudded as he looked Mark over, noticing purple bruises on his neck and seeing a shimmer of tears in Mark’s eyes.

There was a new visitor here last night and he was…” Mark swallowed. “He was not like you.”

“You’re hurt,” said George, feeling sick.

“Not as much as I might have been.”

“Who was he?” George said, trying not to raise his voice for Mark’s sake.

“I cannot tell you that, sir. He is one of the Customs Officers is all I know. Young, and taller than me. Fair hair. Nasty way of talking, like I was a bit of dirt on his shoe.”

“And he was violent. I can see that he was.”

“He…” Mark faltered. “He choked me and tried to force me. I don’t know why. I would have let him without it, tis my job. He frightened me so I fought him. Madam says she won’t allow him again.” Mark closed his eyes as a tear escaped, and ducked his head to one side.

_William_. It had to be him. George had not encountered him since leaving school, but had heard the town gossip about him as the newest Customs Officer. Stories of his violent arrests, rumours of him blackmailing, of accepting bribes, and of beating confessions out of innocent people.

And now beating Mark, of all people. George felt faint with anger. _My God_. He would destroy him for this.

“Are you going to leave?” Mark said, flicking the tear away with a careless brush of his hand.

“Not on my own account, but of course I will if you wish it,” said George, still struggling to compose himself.

“I don’t wish it at all.  If you’d like to come to bed sir, tis only my throat that’s hurt. He didn’t get as far as...” Mark hesitated, reaching out towards George. “And my mouth, he didn’t hit me there.”

George felt like crying, or smashing something. But he contained both urges as he always did, and let the fury turn to ice within him.

“No, Mark,” he said gently, taking the hand Mark offered. “Let’s drink some wine and talk instead, or play a hand. I want a chance to win some of my money back after last time.”

Mark breathed out shakily and George pretended not to notice the relief on his face.  

George stayed the night that night, though he did not try to touch Mark again. They did not sleep, yet they did not talk of what had happened to Mark either. George kept the conversation light and the card game flowing, until Mark fell asleep at last, his head pillowed on his arm, his pale face shadowed purple beneath his eyes.

 

\--------------- 

 

George crept out as dawn broke, passing Madam’s small study by the front door. She sat there still, smoking one of her acrid pipes and sipping the bitter black coffee she liked, her accounts books open before her.

George paused, then went in.

“Here,” he said, unrolling a bundle of notes. “I wish to pay for a week. Even if I do not come every night, Mark is paid for by me and you should not send anyone else to him.”

Madam gave him a long look. Then she poured him a small cup of coffee and gestured to a chair. George sat.

“I did not know the man would hurt him,” she said at last. “I hope you believe that sir. I care about the boy well enough.”

George nodded.

Madam’s eyes crinkled a little. “Mark broke the bastard’s damned nose, if you'll believe me. Twas something at least.”

George smiled a little at last. He took a sip of the coffee and peered over at the accounts books.

“There is an error there,” he said after a moment. He ran a finger down the column of totals. “Here. You have accidentally entered the interest on your loan from my bank as double what it should be.”

“Indeed sir?” said Madam, pressing her lips together to suppress a smile. “Dear! However did I calculate so wrong.”

“I do not know Madam. But here is the figure it should be in future,” George said, taking her pen and writing down the new amount.

“Well now,” said Madam and jammed her pipe back between her teeth, “Isn’t that a thing.” George stood.

“Remember what I asked,” he said, putting on his hat.

“I will not forget. Bless you, sir.”

 

\------------------

 

George returned to Mark the next night, for his Uncle had not returned, and his father paid no mind to what George did in the evenings as long as it did not involve disturbing him in his study.

Mark was quiet and George talked of this and that, filling the silence. After a while he ran out of conversation and they fell into silence again.

George felt compelled to confess himself to Mark.

“I think I should tell you,” he said at last, “I know the man. I went to school with him. He tried the same with me once, though not with such force.”

Mark’s eyes had gone wide and his mouth trembled. He bit down hard on his lip.

George leant forward intently. “I promise you, I will not let him away with this.”

Mark put his face in his hands and began to cry.

George put an arm around him and Mark turned his face into George’s chest. “Sorry sir,” he whispered. George said nothing but held him tighter, selfishly pleased that he was the one Mark turned to in his distress. And then remembered that he had no one else, most likely.

Mark took a deep breath and scrubbed his hand across his eyes.

“I do not know why…” he began. “I have been hurt before, the men are often drunk or rough. But this felt different. When I looked at him, there was nothing in his eyes. Twas as though he was not human.”

“There is something wrong with him,” George said. “I do not know what. But I will make him regret he ever did this.”

Mark shook his head. “I would rather never think of him again. Please do not seek him out George, for both our sakes.”

George did not reply. He remembered Ross's words all that time ago, almost echoing Mark's. _George, I beg you, do nothing about this._ Yet he had, and it had ended in disaster.

But this was different. This _had_ to be punished. He could not see past his fury to think how he would ever forget what William had done. It was his fault that William had taken this job in the first place, and given him all this power to attack and bribe and hurt people. No, he could not just leave it alone. 

“Tis hard to think how I will work now,” Mark said. “I cannot bear the thought of it. Except you.”

“You do not have to say that,” said George. His insides twisted in an indescribable way, a kind of happiness mixed with fear, like leaning over the edge of a cliff.  

“Tis the truth though,” Mark said, and kissed George softly. He pulled George down on the bed beside him and they kissed for a while; sweet, unhurried kisses, lingering over each other’s mouths. George could feel the tension leaving Mark as he held him and was unsurprised when he said, “I am so tired,” and let his eyes close. He had most likely barely slept these two days past.

George wondered if it was a strange, motherly thing to do to take Mark’s boots off and pull the blanket over him before he left. Ross had told him he “had the soul of a maiden aunt” after all. Even if it was, he concluded after doing it, it was not as though either he or Mark had experienced enough mothering to know.

 

\------------

 

He had sent his carriage away hours ago, and so set out to walk home in the darkness of the early morning. Away from Mark’s influence, he could feel himself filling with poisonous thoughts of making William pay. Seeing him brought to his knees. God knows if he and Mark were the only two people he had tried to force himself upon; George doubted it. And the thought of him hurting _Mark_ , Mark who would have let him have his way with him as generously as he could, and yet he chose to hurt him _anyway_...George felt such angry bile rise up in him that he took his cane and smashed it again and again against the side of the building he was passing, hearing a windowpane crack. _God, God_. He pressed his hands against his face.

Enough of that. He was a Warleggan, with influence and money and a reputation to uphold. He would not allow his temper to reduce him to this. 

He would need a cool head to think up the plan that would tear William’s life to pieces.


	8. My foe outstretched

He could not go to Mark the rest of that week, for his Uncle had returned and was keeping George very busy on bank business. George used the opportunity to gather small snippets of town gossip about the Customs Officials. It seemed William had been causing more trouble than George had realised; had had various merchants in the town in an uproar over false accusations and over-zealous inspections. George did not doubt for a minute that William would be involved in underhand dealings and blackmail as well as terrorising the town’s businessmen. Slowly he began to work out where he might possibly find a weak spot to push upon.

A side effect of this was discovering that Ross was associating with a few free traders himself. So typical of Ross, to set himself against the law. He had always been drawn to breaking rules he considered stupid or unfair. And in truth, the tin miners had to find alternative sources of income when the mines laid them off in summer. He could see why Ross would aid and abet them.

Even if William was aware of Ross’s associations, he obviously had never done anything about it. Coward, George thought. William knew that Ross would no more succumb to blackmail and intimidation than fly to the moon. So much for his so called principles.

But all thoughts of William had been set aside that morning, as he had been summoned to Uncle Carey’s study. He racked his brains to think what he could possibly have done to incense his Uncle this time.

Nothing, as it turned out. Instead he had been summoned to discuss an old client who had missed three payments on his loan.

"Your father thinks that we should meet with him first, before calling the bailiffs on him - out of courtesy to a faithful customer." His Uncle's expression showed what he thought of this idea.

“I am to come with you?” George said.

“I cannot go at all. I have another engagement in Truro,” his Uncle said.

"You wish me to go alone," George said. “To Penzance?”

"Well, can you not wait on yourself for a night or two?" said his Uncle, exasperated. "My God George, you are almost nineteen. Take a servant if you must."

George pressed his lips together to hide a delighted smile. He knew exactly who he would take with him.

 

\------------------

 

“So tell me again who I am?” said Mark.

They were sprawled out in the carriage George had hired for the journey, eating their way through a bag of peaches and hurling the pits out of the window. Mark’s mood had improved with every mile they put between themselves and Truro, and ten miles into the journey he seemed almost his cheerful old self.

“You are a junior clerk at the bank and you are with me to gain experience of business transactions.”

Mark grinned at him. “And what is my name?”

“Well, what is your name?” said George, realising he had no idea.

“Oh, I’ve never known for sure. ‘Smith’ they called me at the workhouse. They called all the orphans that though.”

George was silent for a moment, reflecting on how self-absorbed he had been never to ask about Mark’s background at all.

“You have had a hard time of it,” he said.

“Yes, tis such a hard life,” said Mark, winking at him and beginning on his third peach. “Just look what I must endure. Being transported in a carriage by a rich young gentleman and fed peaches till I burst.”

George had rushed to visit him at the brothel as soon as he had excused himself from his Uncle. He’d found him pale and listless after another bad night’s sleep.

“How would you like to get away from Truro for a couple of days?” George had said, and Mark had sat up straight.  

“Just us two, sir?” he had said.

“Yes, only you and I. I will...if you name your price Mark, I…” George had hesitated over what he was trying to say, wondering if Mark would think this meant George wanted his services. “I will compensate you for your hours,” he said at last. “But I would like you to come with me as my friend, nothing more.”

If he thought Mark had looked happy before, the mention of friendship seemed to transport him.

“I don’t want any money sir,” he said. “Taking me with you is enough.”

“Then please don’t call me sir any more,” George had said. “We will go on equal terms.”

Mark’s eyes went round. “George,” he had said, trying it out. “George Warleggan.” He gave a chuckle and George could not help but smile back.

He had used George’s name at every opportunity on the journey, as if relishing it on his tongue. George loved the intimacy of it; Mark’s ‘sir’s had always kept a distance between them till now. But his name in Mark’s mouth felt like a caress.

“George,” Mark said now, sliding over to George, winding his arm around his waist. “Stop looking so melancholy. Here, I will share this last peach with you,” he said, his face full of mischief. Watching George closely from his dark eyes, he held the peach to George’s mouth, and George could not help but suck at its sweetness. Taking the peach away, Mark replaced it with his own lips, chasing a drop of juice at the corner of George’s mouth with his tongue.

George breathed out shakily. It had only been a week since he and Mark had last touched each other this way, and yet he was so aroused it was as though they had not been together in months. He had been careful not to push Mark at all, but my god, the way Mark was running his tongue along George’s lower lip was sending him almost wild.

Mark took a mouthful of the fruit and licked the juice from his fingers.

“I hope you have a clean shirt with you, George,” he said, his eyes dancing. “For I’m about to make a terrible mess of you.”

 

\-----------------

 

On arrival at the tavern where they would break their journey, Mark took over entirely. He charmed the proprietress relentlessly, all the while insisting that he and George share a room.

“I know tis not very usual Madam,” he said, “But between you and me, my master sleepwalks something awful. Sometimes,” Mark lowered his voice and leaned over the desk, “...he is entirely naked.” The proprietress went pink. “So you see, tis best if I am there to stop him.”

“We shall pay for two rooms regardless,” interjected George, and that ended the debate at last. He pulled his coat more tightly around his peach stained shirt, and Mark smiled over at him, making him turn pink too. They had not done anything too scandalous in the carriage, only shared the peach amid kisses and touches and languorous licks. And yet he thought he would never be able to eat a peach without blushing again.

“Send up some water,” Mark was saying. “We are filthy from the journey.”

 

\----------------

 

Within an hour they were in the best room in the tavern, with enough bread and cheese to feed five, some wine, and a vast amount of hot water which George was bathing in.

It was the most peaceful they had ever been together, George thought as he lounged in the tub in front of the fire. Mark lolled on the bed drinking wine and being very indiscreet about his clients, making George laugh against his will with his impersonations.

“‘ _I wish to enter your fundament_!’ he sez, all red in the face - as if I’d a notion of what he meant,” said Mark, mimicking a local judge, while George covered his face and shook with the giggles. “My fundament if you please. No wonder so many innocent folks get sent to prison, for they cannot know what these lawyers are saying.”

George gave a groan of laughter and ducked his head under the water to calm his red face. When he emerged, Mark was standing over him.

“I think you are clean enough now,” he said. “Come out and let me dry you.”

Why he had tried to calm his red face in the cooling water he did not know, for his whole body flushed red now at this thought. Taking Mark’s hand, he allowed him to pull him up to a standing position. Rivulets of water ran down his body as Mark looked him up and down.

“Mark,” he said, his mouth dry suddenly. He could feel himself begin to harden.

“Or perhaps you are better like this, all wet,” said Mark, a wicked smile on his lips. “I cannot decide.” He put a hand on the back of George’s neck and pulled him forward for a kiss.

George could taste the wine on Mark’s tongue and pulled back a little.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Why would I not be sure?”

“You have had wine.”

“One whole glass,” said Mark, teasing George’s lips apart with his own. George sighed and let himself be half lifted out of the bath tub and tugged over to the bed. Mark was everywhere; his mouth on George’s, his hands sliding over his damp skin, his firm body pushing against him.

But he had to be sure.

“I do not want you to do anything because you think I wish it,” said George. “Only what you would wish to do.”

Mark went still. “But I never have done things I didn’t wish to. Not with you,” he said, sounding surprised. “Didn’t you believe me?”

“I... but I paid you to,” said George in confusion.

“I’m still human,” said Mark. “I still feel things just like you do. Paying me doesn’t buy that.” He pressed a kiss to George’s mouth. “Paying me doesn’t buy my heart.”

George could not trust himself to answer. Instead he wrapped his arms around Mark’s neck, pulling him down on top of him, kissing him more deeply than he had ever kissed him before. Arching up against him he parted his legs, drawing Mark down between them.

“Take me like this,” he murmured against Mark’s mouth. “ _Please_.”

“You want me…” Mark drew back for a moment and looked at George, his eyes darkening with desire. “God, George I have never…”

“Please Mark. I want you to. I... I prefer it,” George admitted. Mark let out a shaky breath.

“Turn over,” he said, and George’s pulse began to race. Mark had never given him an order before. He turned, resting his face on his forearms, heart hammering as he waited for Mark to touch him.

Mark leant over him. He began kissing him at the nape of the neck, licking at the water droplets running down from his damp hair. Then downwards, downwards, past his shoulder blades, past his ribs and the dip at the base of his spine. Then Mark’s hands were on his hips and then lower, skimming over his skin, holding him still. George felt Mark’s breath against him but could not think what...he cried out in surprise as he felt the first swipe of Mark’s tongue across his opening. _God_. Did people do this? Could it be…it felt so...” _Ohh_ ,” he moaned despite himself as Mark’s tongue entered him. He squirmed with pleasure, pushing back against Mark, his cock hard and trapped against the cool sheets of the bed.

“You want more of that,” Mark said, and it wasn’t a question. He licked George again, pushing his tongue inside him and George could only bury his face in his arms and tremble and moan. He was utterly undone; it was _indecent_. And yet he was harder than he had ever been in his life.

“Yes,” he heard himself say. “ _Yes_.”

Mark yanked George’s hips up off the bed, freeing his cock before pushing his tongue back inside him. George could not control the sounds that were coming from him as Mark wrapped one hand around George’s cock and stroked slowly. George could feel himself opening under Mark’s mouth, enough for Mark to slide a finger inside him, moving it around before slowly drawing it back out again. Mark’s hands and mouth disappeared from George’s body entirely for a moment at the bed shifted. He could hear Mark undressing, and the sound of the stopper of the oil being opened. And then warm oil drizzled down his back, over his hole and between his legs. Mark plunged a finger inside him again, and then another.

“You are so tight George,” he said, kissing his back. “I will never last a moment.”

George felt his muscles contract around Mark’s fingers, and then again as an oily hard took hold of his cock, tugging it back between his legs and stroking it hard. Oh, it was too much, it was...he tensed, felt his climax begin to roll through him, his pants turning to cries. But Mark took his hands away, wrapping strong fingers around George’s balls, stopping him from finishing.

“Not yet, not yet,” he said. “I want to be in you. Can you hold it?”

“I... I think so,” said George, feeling lightheaded at the thought of Mark inside him. “Only be quick.”

“Tis the last thing I want to be,” Mark said, “But I think tis the way it will turn out.”

Grabbing George’s hips, he flipped him over onto his back, nudging George’s legs apart. He took himself in hand, guiding the head of his cock to George’s opening.

“You want this,” Mark said, breathing hitching in his chest, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “You truly do?”

George tilted his hips up to him. “ _Please_ ,” he said. “I want you inside me. Now, I…”

Mark had begun to push into George and George tensed, waiting for the momentary discomfort that always came. But it did not happen. Mark had licked, oiled and opened him so thoroughly that his cock slowly sliding inside George brought nothing but pleasure.

It was not just the hard slide of Mark’s cock that sent him arching and moaning, but the way Mark looked as he did it. He was only half-way into George but he was breathing as though he was about to finish, eyes closed with the pleasure of it. George watched as Mark opened his eyes again, taking a breath that was almost a sob.

“I cannot dare move,” he half laughed. “You feel so...I cannot believe this is how it feels. I am going to go off like a firework.”

“Then do it,” said George. “I want to watch your face while you do.” He didn’t think he had ever said something so shameless before. Mark’s eyes went black with arousal.

“ _George_ …”

George wrapped his legs around Mark’s waist and pulled him forward, arching his hips as Mark’s cock slid in to the hilt. Mark made an indescribable noise and began to move inside him. Mark’s cock was pressing again and again over that spot inside him that sent him wild, and he was leaning down over George, kissing him, whispering to him about how good it felt and how good he tasted and how beautiful he looked. George could not get enough of Mark’s mouth on his as they moved together, his tongue licking into George with every thrust, George sucking and biting at Mark’s lips until they were bruised and red.

George wanted Mark inside him, against him; he wanted to drink him in. He could feel Mark everywhere; against the soft skin of his thighs, against his slick cock, his hand in George’s hair, his swollen mouth grazing again and again over George’s parted lips. He felt his climax begin build again and wrapped his legs tightly across Mark’s back, drawing him deeper even as Mark sobbed out a moan against his neck.

“I can’t hold it,” said Mark desperately. “George. _Please_.”

His cock slid against Mark’s stomach, and that was all his body needed to reach completion.

“I’m going to…” George panted and oh, oh here it came in a huge rush of release, surging through every part of his body.

With a huge effort George managed to keep his eyes open as his climax hit him in waves, looking deep into Mark’s eyes as he cried out again and again. And Mark was coming himself, his whole body shaking with the force of it. He shuddered against George, head dropping down onto George’s shoulder, his mouth panting against George’s skin.

It seemed like an age before Mark finally managed to lift his head.

“I have never come like that before,” he said, with a shy laugh. “I thought I would never stop.” He kissed him lazily. “The _tightness_ of you. It was...I would give anything to have you that way again, now I know what tis like.”

“But you can have me that way every time,” said George, combing fingers through Mark’s hair. “I like it this way best.”

“This is the way the boy at school had you?” Mark teased, for George had told him of Ross, not in so many words. George shook his head, tracing a finger around Mark’s mouth.

“Not like this. It was never like this,” he said.

“What could be so different?” said Mark, kissing one of George’s fingertips.

“You,” George said. “You are the difference. You see me. I do not know how else to put it. It makes everything feel...more.”

“Twould be hard to imagine feeling more,” Mark said and they kissed each other again, deep and lingering.

No, thought George. He did not think he could feel more. Not more than this happy ache inside himself whenever he looked at Mark, or the fluttering feeling when he touched him. He was almost afraid to put a name to the feeling, after being so quick to do so with Ross. But this felt different. It was solid and comforting and not always on the precipice of an argument or misunderstanding. Perhaps they could live their lives like this, somehow, in taverns. A kind of togetherness.

Mark had managed to cover them both with a sheet and had rolled onto his side, his arm around George.

“I cannot keep my eyes open sir. I mean George. I am…” his sentence was cut off by an enormous yawn. George felt his eyes grow heavy with the warmth surrounding him and the reassurance of Mark’s arm around his waist. He closed his eyes and let himself drift away.

 

\-----------------

 

They had each other again the next morning just as the morning sun crept in their window, dappling Mark’s pale skin with gold. It was not as frantic as the night before, but Mark took George at a slow and sleepy pace that he was delighted to set, and George had shuddered to completion with Mark’s hand wrapped around him.

Later that morning they strolled through the town together to George’s appointment, taking advantage of the hustle and bustle of the streets of Penzance to walk closely together and to touch each other in small ways. Mark drew George by the arm out of the way of a speeding carriage; George helped Mark put his hat back on after it was knocked off in the crowd around a fish stall. They bought a half dozen oysters and drew into a side street to eat them, leaning casually against each other in a doorway.

“How very common you are, George Warleggan,” Mark said. “Eating oysters in the street as though you were just anyone. If your father could see you.”

“Don’t. He’d have me whipped through the streets,” George said. “But they never do taste as good on a plate.”

He became aware of an altercation in the lane behind them and turned casually to look.

He froze in horror as his eyes fixed upon William arguing with a wine merchant. The merchant appeared to be pleading with him, holding out a bag of coin, whilst William continued to shout.

George shot out an arm and took Mark’s wrist.

“Do not move,” he said. But Mark whipped his head around to see what had so horrified George, and spotted William at once.

“He has not seen us,” said George. “I’m sure he will go down the lane the way he came.”

But with a final cuff at the merchant’s head, the argument was over and William was headed straight for the two of them.

George’s stomach lurched as his eyes met William's, and saw William’s expression of shock upon seeing Mark. He dropped Mark’s wrist as quickly as he could but it was too late.

“Go back to the tavern,” he said to Mark. “Go, now.”

“I cannot leave you with him,” said Mark. “What if…”

“He will not try anything here in public,” said George with much more confidence than he felt. “I am quite safe. But you are not. _Please_.”

Mark nodded once, and pulling his hat down over his eyes, disappeared into the crowd.

George lifted his eyes to confront William alone.

“I ought to rip you to pieces, you sneaking, vicious little shit,” William said. “You have ruined my family.”

“I do not see how it is the fault of my Bank that your father is a gambling wastrel,” George said, holding his ground.  

“You see what I am reduced to.”

“You enjoy it well from what I can see. Extortion and bullying are your life’s blood.”

“You have no foundation for such accusations,” snarled William. “And you are as vile as ever you were. I did not know your perversions had brought you so low that you would associate with a sodomite in broad daylight.”

“Well,” said George. “You addressed _me_ after all, William. I would rather not associate with you at all, day or night.”

He thought William might have a fit right there in front of him.

“I meant that whore you were with,” he spat at last.

“And how do you know he is a whore?” asked George. “Do not bother to lie to me. I think we both know the answer.”

William’s face contorted with rage. “I went to that place for some relief. I asked for a woman and they brought me that...that abomination,” William said.

“Liar,” said George with contained venom. “You asked for him. And then you beat him and tried to violate him. I know how that feels; after all, you tried it with me, too.”

“Be quiet, you, you disgusting...you piece of filth. How dare you parade your lover around with you in public. You are a danger to honest people.”

“What danger do I pose?” George scoffed. “What is it to anyone else what I do with my own body?”

William crowded up to him with silent menace. “Well the law cares for one. Oh, he is a handsome boy I daresay. He won’t look so handsome when I have called the Guard on him and he is brought to the Pillory for the mob to pelt him with everything they can find. I always aim for the teeth first, myself.”

George squeezed his eyes shut in horror. “You would not dare. You have no authority…”

“Try me,” William said, with a vicious smile. “Just remember to keep out of my business, and I will keep out of yours.”  And shoving George away from him, he walked out of the alley.

 

\--------------

 

George had to hurry to his appointment then in a state of terrible agitation. 

The client, Mr Penrose, awaited him in the Crown and Anchor near the harbour. He rose to greet George as George rushed into the tavern. 

“Mr Warleggan sir,” he said. “I have taken the liberty of ordering you a brandy.” 

George had never been more grateful for a drink. He sat down, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief and took a great gulp of it. 

“Steady lad,” Mr Penrose said, startled. 

“I apologise Mr Penrose,” George said, his composure restored. “I had...unexpected news this morning.” 

“Your father and Carey are well I hope?” Mr Penrose said. 

“You know them sir? I know you have been our client for many years.” 

“Grew up with them,” Mr Penrose said shortly. George cleared his throat. 

“My Uncle asked me to come to talk to you regarding your loan,” he said, realising that Mr Penrose would not appreciate him beating around the bush with carefully worded phrases. “You have missed three payments. He was concerned.” 

“Concerned for his own pocket,” said Mr Penrose. “Did he not tell you of the letter I wrote your father?” 

“No,” said George, feeling a stab of anger at his Uncle. He should have known there would be more to this trip than his Uncle had said. His Uncle should have come himself if he and Mr Penrose were childhood friends. 

“My wife and my boy,” Mr Penrose began. He stopped and stared out of the window for a moment. “They died. A low fever that came over the town three months ago. I caught it too but survived it, for what purpose only God knows.” 

George waited for him to continue. 

“I had spent all I had on doctors. And then the burials.” He stopped again. 

“I am very sorry to hear of it,” George said. “Uncle Carey did not mention a letter.” 

Mr Penrose shook his head and smiled wryly. “Carey would probably enjoy bankrupting me, as much as he enjoys anything. He would not want your father to stop him by reason of compassion.” 

“I do not wish to bankrupt you sir,” said George. And he did not. He had had quite enough of bullying, cruel men for today. He could not allow both William and his Uncle to win out. 

Mr Penrose smiled. “No I do not think you do. You have a look of your mother about you. She was a good woman.” 

George found it hard to ever talk of his mother, but he nodded. “I have been told I favour her.” 

“You were too young to remember her perhaps.” 

“Not quite,” George said and looked down at the table. Mr Penrose reached out and gave George’s shoulder a hearty shake. It felt kind and strangely comforting. 

George took a breath. “What can you afford?” he said. “I must come back to my Uncle with something.” 

“I need one more month,” Mr Penrose said. “I will be back on an even keel after that. As to the missing payments, I thought I would sell part of my land...though that will take time.” 

“Forget the missing payments,” George said, taking another great sip of the brandy. He felt reckless. “I shall strike them off.” Why not? He was cleverer with numbers than his father and uncle in any case. He could bury the missing payments in the account book as easily as he had hidden the favourable interest rate he had given Madam. It would serve them both right. 

“Do you mean it sir?” Mr Penrose said. “It would be a great relief to me. When they passed I... I lost myself, for a long time. I did not know what was what. I cannot tell you what it would mean to keep my land. Why, they are buried there.” 

“I do mean it. Although you must keep it quiet,” George said. 

“Then I owe you a great debt of gratitude,” Mr Penrose said, clasping George’s hand. “If you ever need my aid, you have only to ask.” 

George drained the brandy and stood up. “Thank you sir. I will remember. I am sorry but I have to take my leave of you immediately. I have another appointment which awaits me.”  He could not leave Mark at the tavern alone and worried for much longer. 

With a final handshake he left Mr Penrose to finish his drink.

 

\--------------

 

George wanted to act fast on their return to Truro. Mark had returned to the brothel and George could not feel he was safe until he could find a way to spike William’s guns. 

He poured over the accounts books, looking for signs that local merchants had started to struggle to pay their loans. Regardless of reason, it could be an indication that their money was going elsewhere. To line William’s pockets perhaps. 

Eventually he narrowed it down to three businesses, and summoned the owners one by one to see him at the Bank. 

In each instance he was correct; they were being blackmailed. Either due to evidence of free trading planted by William himself, or by the fact they had innocently (George used a broad definition of innocence in this case) traded in smuggled goods through a third party. 

Questioning them closely, he discovered William’s methods. His intimidation, his false evidence. It seemed that William liked to collect his extorted money on the same day every week. He was obviously too arrogant or stupid to cover his tracks or change his routine. Well, his arrogance would be his downfall, George thought. An anonymous call to the Guard and William could be picked up with his pockets full of ill-gotten gains. It was fool proof. 

George laid his plan carefully. He asked the merchant who was last on William’s round to delay him as long as possible so that the Guard had enough time to find him. He did not see how it could go wrong. His only dilemma was that he wanted desperately to see it happen. He wanted to see William being dragged away. He wanted to feel the triumph of it. 

_He would be careful_ , he thought. He would conceal himself well. 

Mark, thankfully, knew nothing of his plan. It was not lying, George convinced himself. Mark had said he never wanted to think of William again. George spent the evening beforehand with Mark, feeling thrilled with the anticipation that they would soon be free of threat and menace. With William dealt with, George could begin on a plan to free Mark of the brothel. 

“We should go away together again soon,” said George. “Two nights perhaps. I’m sure I can find a reason if I think of it.” 

“I hope you do,” said Mark, kissing his way up George’s stomach to his chest. “This room makes me feel like I am suffocating some days.” 

George’s eyes fluttered closed as Mark continued his progress from chest to neck. Then he bit gently on the spot just below George’s ear that always rendered George helpless, and he could not think of anything else but Mark.

 

\------------------

 

George was following William at a great distance, covered from head to toe in a dark cloak. He felt slightly silly as he crept from shadow to shadow. William was marching ahead paying no mind at all to his surroundings and George felt like a child playing a stupid game. He could still just turn away, go home. Or to Mark. Let what would happen, happen. But the thought of William's rage at being arrested was just too delicious.  

William pushed his way into the shop of a glass merchant, and George withdrew into a dark lane opposite to watch. This was his final destination and the Guard would arrive at any moment. 

At that moment cart drew up just beyond the shop and began to unload, obscuring his view of the door. Fish barrels as far as George could tell. 

Then his heart stopped to see Ross there, heaving barrel after barrel off the cart, talking merrily with the assortment of men who were with him. There would be no fish in those barrels then, George thought, his pulse beginning to race. Oh, God. What could be in them? Nothing legal, that was certain. 

What on earth should he do. William was only feet away inside the shop. The Guard would descend at any moment. Ross and his friends would be caught utterly red-handed, there could be no argument about it. 

Should he leave events to unfold? Perhaps Ross would escape without help. He was so close to getting justice for William, he could not just wreck the whole plan. 

But this was _Ross_. Could he really stand by and see him arrested? Punishments for free-trading were merciless, Poldark or no Poldark. George scrubbed his hand across his face. No, he could not. He must try to warn him. 

Throwing the cloak back from his face, he hurried across the street. 

“Ross,” he said urgently and Ross turned to face him. His expression turned to shock. 

“Why are you here?” Ross demanded. 

“It does not matter,” George said. “Only you should know that William Trelawny is within that glass merchant’s there, and that the Guard are on their way.” 

“You have called the Guard on me?” Ross said incredulously. 

“Not on you, on William. I... he is extorting money and I want to stop him. But that is beside the point. You must go, Ross!” 

Ross turned to his companions. “Run,” he said. “I will take the cart to safety.” 

“Forget the cart,” George said. “For God’s sake…” 

William burst out of the shop at that very moment. 

“You here!” he said, looking from George to Ross. “What is this?” 

“We have as much business to be here as you,” George said. 

“So you have transferred your affections from the handsome little whore to Poldark now, have you?” William said. “You are wasting your time; I doubt he will indulge your perversion.” 

George said nothing. He did not look at Ross. He willed William to focus on him alone and not notice the barrels still stacked behind them. 

But it did not work. 

William looked at the cart. “Is this yours?” 

Things were going wrong, very wrong.

“No,” said George. “It is nothing to do with…” 

William knocked one of the remaining barrels to the ground and kicked it hard. It split open, tobacco spilling everywhere. William looked up at them triumphantly. 

“Oh, I have you now Warleggan,” he said, with a horrible smile. 

“Those goods belong to me, William. Leave George out of this,” Ross said. 

“I don’t believe you. You are in it together. I’ll have you both for it,” William said, grabbing George and restraining him against the wall, panting against his face. George turned his face away, struggled violently, kicking out at William, but he was so much larger.  He began to panic. What if William dragged him away to finish the job he'd once started? He did not know if he could stop him. William was pressed hard against him under the pretense of subduing George, but George could tell by his breathing that it was not the only reason. George's skin crawled. 

“Let him go,” Ross said. “You fucking coward.”

“Oh so you are his lover after all?” William said. 

“Ross,” George managed. “For God’s sake go!” 

But Ross instead kicked the legs out from under William, who collapsed instantly. George wrenched himself free. 

“Get away George,” Ross said. “I will finish this.” 

“Ross, the _Guard_ …” 

Ross pushed George hard into the dark of the alley beside the shop. He stumbled and fell and by the time he had righted himself, he could hear the tramp, tramp of the Guard approaching. 

“Get up and face me then,” Ross roared at William. “You are not as fast to attack me, are you?” 

Ross threw his punch at William just as the Guard arrived. William was knocked flat but struggled back to his feet yelling “Arrest him for assault and free trading!” 

Ross fought like a wildcat but they subdued him at last, smashing open the fish barrels to reveal the tobacco in each one. 

"Trelawny has it right, Captain," one of the Guards said. "All of these are illegal goods."

The Captain of the Guard looked at Ross where he lay restrained by two men. “Clap him in irons,” he said.

George could watch no more as Ross was led away. He turned and fled.


	9. Cruelty has a human heart

 “I see Ross Poldark has been found guilty of assaulting a Customs Official,” Uncle Carey said at breakfast two days later, peering out from behind the newspaper.  “And of dealing in smuggled goods.” 

“Guilty?” said George. It could not be. The Poldark name, the reluctance of juries to convict on charges of free trading, none of this had saved him? 

“He’ll hang for it -  or at least he should,” his Uncle continued. “Though no doubt the Poldark name will save his skin and he’ll only be enlisted. Still, I wouldn’t give him good odds, not with that revolutionary war in the Americas.”

“Is there no other…” George’s voice failed. What had he done. What in God’s name had he done?

But his Uncle had lost interest in the subject and had moved onto some other town gossip.

The maid came in to clear the breakfast dishes. “This arrived for you sir,” she said, holding out a note to George.

His heart lurched as he read it.

“ _Sir_ ,” it said. “ _If you have any way to help Mark then send help now. The guard have come for him and I am hiding him, but they will return._ ”

George’s vision went black for a moment, blood singing in his ears. Somehow he managed to stay upright and get out of the room while his Uncle was still buried in the paper.

William had sent the Guard after Mark, just as he had threatened to do. _Oh God_ , thought George as he took the stairs two at a time, _let him not be too late_. Let Mark be safe. He would give everything he had. He would do anything.

Yelling for their driver, he leapt into his carriage. The driver appeared in his shirtsleeves and half shaved, but George could not hesitate. 

“You must help me, Evans,” he said. “Please.” 

Evans was a kind man and a discreet servant who would never so much as raise an eyebrow at anything George did. He merely wiped the shaving soap from his face and climbed into the driving seat. 

“To my friend in town Evans, as fast as you like,” George said, knowing Evans would know what he meant. 

As his carriage drew up outside the brothel, the side door flew open and two figures appeared, one shrouded in a cloak. George flung open the carriage door and Madam bundled Mark in without a word. George thumped the side of the carriage immediately and they were off. 

Mark pushed back the hood of the cloak a little and George could see how grey with exhaustion and terror he was.

“The Guard came,” Mark said. “Madam hid me well but they will return. She…” he held out a small bottle in his hand. “She gave me the poison she promised. But I could not. I always thought I’d take it, not even blink. But when it came to it, I... I wanted to see you again. I wanted to live.”

George snatched the bottle away in horror.

“Never think of doing this again. _Promise_ me. I swear to you I will protect you.”

“Where am I to hide George? I cannot think of a place.”

“I will find somewhere. I will take care of it,” said George, trying to sound confident.

“Why did they come?” Mark said.

George closed his eyes. He had to tell him.

“It was my doing. I tried to stop William. It...it went wrong. And he has tried to punish me by threatening you.  I am so sorry. I have put you in danger and it was last thing I ever wanted.”

Mark said nothing, only looked at his hands.

“I never meant for this,” said George. “Please let us not be parted over it.”

“We would have always had to part someday George,” Mark said, laying a hand over George’s. “Tis the way of things for people like us. You must have known that?”

“I thought there might have been a way. I had thought perhaps I could employ you in the bank,” George said, feeling stupid as soon as he admitted it.

“Sir…” Mark said. “George. I cannot read and write. But thank you for thinking of it.”

“I could have taught you, perhaps,” said George, wishing fervently that he’d thought of this before. What could have been sweeter than watching Mark read for the first time?

“I can’t be taught. I’ve tried and tried but the letters are all a jumble and I cannot read them. No brains you see,” he said.

“That isn’t true. You are one of the brightest people I know,” said George and gripped Mark’s hand. Mark welled with tears all of a sudden.

“I would give anything to work alongside you at the bank,” he said. “To see you every day. Twould be my heart’s delight.”

“There must be something we can do. There must be a solution. This cannot be the last time I see you,” said George desperately.

“You cannot conceal me,” said Mark.

George covered his face with a hand as wild thoughts swirled through him. _He could get the keys to the vault. He could just take some gold, take what they needed. They could run away. Somewhere far away, London perhaps, where they could disappear._

No, no. He could not. They would be found; his Uncle would move heaven and earth to get the stolen money back. And he would show no mercy - Mark would hang for it, even if his Uncle saved George. And the scandal it would create...all the work, all the effort his family had put into the business, he could not just sweep it all away in a moment of madness.

But looking at Mark again he wondered if it was madness at all. _Was it madness to want to be happy?_

He could not think of this now. He had to get Mark to safety. He could not conceal him, and he could not employ him. But perhaps someone could.

“There is somewhere you can go.”

The carriage had arrived back at the Warleggan townhouse and George opened the door.

“I have to get something. I will be as fast as I can,” he said, and Mark nodded, his eyes wide with fright.

Once inside he forced himself to walk calmly upstairs, to allow the maid to take his coat and hat as he usually would. He casually enquired about any post. “I shall read it in my room,” he said.

On reaching his room he sat down on the window seat and gave way for a moment to the trembling fear he had been holding off by sheer strength of will. But only for a moment; then he was on his feet again, snatching up ink and paper, beginning a letter.

_Dear sir,_

_I find myself in need of the favour you believe is due to me. I must ask you to shelter my friend for a short while. I send money for his keep with him, and I assure you that he is of good character. The circumstances of his situation are not of his making, but mine._

_If you can see a way to grant me this favour, please consider your debt to my family’s bank discharged in its entirety._

George did not know how he would fulfil this promise, but he would find a way. His hands shook as he signed the letter and sealed it. He did not think Mr Penrose would treat Mark badly. It was just until George thought of a plan, he told himself. It would be alright. He would think of a way for Mark to come back to him.

He left his room and went to the study where he cleared out the safe of any money he could find. Not a fortune, but enough to pay the carriage and see Mark alright for a few weeks at least. Sliding the money bag into his sleeve he left the room and walked swiftly down the stairs before he was discovered.

Mark jumped as George burst back into the carriage. He thrust the money and letter at Mark. 

“I am sending you to the landowner I had business with in Penzance. He is a good man, he will take care of you for a while until I can think what to do,” George said. 

“Am I to…” Mark hesitated. “Will he want me in his bed George?” 

“No, God - _no_. There is money there to give him, and I have brokered a deal within the letter you have there. Do not worry.” 

“Tis hard not to,” said Mark with a weak smile. George sat down beside him and drew Mark against him. Mark leant his cheek against George’s hair and breathed out shakily. 

“Tis hard not to think that I’ll never set eyes on you again,” he said. “And it hurts to think it. When it was all so happy between us.” 

“I have never been so happy,” George burst out. 

“Nor I. Oh, George, I hope you will be happy again. I wish you well, in everything.” 

“Do not talk as though this is an ending. I do not want this,” said George feeling his control giving way at last. He did not want to hear Mark’s goodbyes. He felt as though he might be sick. “Oh god, I do not want it.” 

Mark did not speak, but swallowed convulsively and gripped George’s hand. He leant forward, putting his forehead against George’s for a moment. Then he pulled away from him again, and George forced himself to look at him.  He almost wished he had not when he saw his exhausted, frightened face. 

The carriage rocked a little as the horses moved impatiently in their harnesses and he knew he could not delay any longer.  He opened the door to the carriage. “I will see you again. We _will_ see each other soon,” he said. Mark nodded, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes closed. 

George left the carriage before he lost any resolve to go ahead with this plan and just took Mark back home with him. Mark had turned from the window and George was almost thankful he could not see his eyes any more. He told Evans his destination and motioned him to move off. 

He forced himself to watch until they disappeared from sight. 

He walked as though in a dream back into the house and up the staircase to his bedroom. He realised he still had the poison clutched in his hand and he put it on his mantelpiece gently as though it was something precious, before his legs gave way and he sat down on the bed. His chest rose and fell with a strange, dry sob. It would be wonderful to give way to his feelings now. But George could not rest until he had done one more painful thing that day.

 

\-----------------

 

Dressing carefully, he made his way to the town gaol. Giving the gaoler a heavy bribe, he was given access to the long, dank corridor of cells where Ross was being held. 

Ross sat on the floor, his head tilted back against the wall. He turned slowly at the sound of George’s footsteps, frowning with surprise at the sight of him. 

“Ross,” said George, inclining his head as though this was a social visit. 

“Why are you here George?” Ross said. He stood. George could see his exhaustion, but he did not seem defeated.   

“I heard what happened,” George said. “I wanted to…” he stopped. “I am very sorry you got mixed up in all this.” 

“Sorry won’t give me my freedom,” Ross said. “Though I hope it makes you feel better.” 

“It is not I who has taken your freedom from you,” George said, feeling his temper beginning to rise. Of course Ross would lay the blame at his door, why had he thought any different. He tried to calm himself. 

“If there is anything I can do. Money, or…” 

“I do not need your charity, thank you George.” 

“It would not be charity,” said George, stung anew at Ross’s animosity to any offer of his help. 

“Oh, a loan then?” Ross said. 

“Of course not. It would be a gift. From...from a friend,” said George, feeling pathetic. Why had he offered, he should have known he would be rejected. 

“You have nothing I want George. Unless you possess the power to turn back the clock.” 

George said nothing. 

“God George,” Ross burst out angrily. “Why could you not let well alone? If you had not schemed to expose William…” 

“Why should he not have been exposed? He is a monster. He was blackmailing honest people. He could not be left to get away with it,” George said, his voice rising. 

“That is not why you did it,” said Ross. “I don’t believe you for a moment.” 

“He did something that he needed to pay for,” George said. 

"Is there no end to your need for revenge?" Ross said, his face twisted with anger. 

"It was not done for me." 

"Then who?" 

George said nothing. 

“The man William accused you of being with. Was that…” 

George took a breath. “William hurt him.” 

“And he wanted you to make William pay?” 

_No he did not_. George felt as though he had been kicked with the realisation. Mark had not wanted this. In fact, he had begged for the opposite. And yet George had gone ahead, blinded by his own pride and anger and succeeded in ruining lives and almost having Mark killed.  He could not speak, but shook his head once. 

Ross stared him down. “So it was done for yourself. Not anyone else.” 

“My friend,” George said, “Is very dear to me.” 

Ross made a sound of disgust and turned away. 

“I am not like you,” George burst out, unable to let Ross dismiss him like this. “And you know that I am not. There will be no Elizabeth for me.” 

Ross whirled back around on him. 

“There will be no Elizabeth for me now, either. Or had you not thought of that,” Ross spat. 

George looked at the floor, not able to face the cold fury in Ross’s eyes. 

“So where is your friend now?” Ross asked after a moment. 

“Gone,” George said, his insides twisting at the admission. 

“Best of luck to him. He is better away from you in any case.” 

George reeled backwards as though he had been hit. How did Ross always know how to crucify him with words. 

“I did not want this to happen you know,” he said, “It is not my doing that you were involved in trading those goods. Neither did I make you hit William. We are both as much to blame as each other.” 

He moved up to the bars of the cell so that he and Ross were face to face. “I have lost someone too,” George said. He had meant it defiantly, but could not keep the pain out of his voice. _Let Ross try to tell him his loss of Elizabeth was greater._

Ross did not try. He seemed to slump, the anger fading out of him. 

“So what will happen to you now?” asked George after a moment. 

“I am here for one more night, then I shall be taken to the barracks,” Ross said. “I will be taught how to be a soldier I suppose.” He looked down at his hand which was bruised and swollen and curled it into a fist. George remembered that fist smashing into William’s face. At least that had been satisfying.   

“I told you at school that I’d break William’s head for you now and again,” Ross said, a wry smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose I have kept my promise.” 

“I suppose you have,” said George. “ I would not have held you to it.” 

“I consider a day wasted if I have not punched some idiot in the head,” Ross said. 

“You are made for the army then,” said George and Ross laughed. They stepped apart again. 

The jailor rattled his keys as a sign George’s gold coin had reached its time limit. Ross and George looked at each other. 

“Goodbye Ross,” George said, putting his hat back on. He wanted to say something more, but was at an utter loss how to begin. It felt too big to express. He lifted a hand, thinking perhaps to shake Ross's. 

But Ross had already turned away.

 

\---------------

 

Weeks went by before George had any news of Mark in Penzance. 

He received a letter from Mr Penrose at last, telling him that Mark had succumbed to an illness on arrival and had been unwell for quite some time. He was recovering now, but was very weak, and would not be fit to travel for a while yet. 

“ _He seems resistant to any discussion of his return_ ,” Mr Penrose wrote. “ _And for my part I am glad to have him here. When he is not melancholy he is very pleasant company_.” 

It was a strange feeling, having your heart broken by increments. Or at least, that was what George supposed was happening to him. Some nights George lay awake for hours with every inch of his skin, every particle of his being missing Mark and longing for him, longing to touch him. He had not realised that you could feel physical pain over something like this.

With every day that passed the idea that he and Mark would see each other again seemed more and more impossible. Mark could not return in any case with William still at large, having not been prosecuted at all. 

He wanted to take a carriage directly to Penzance, to hold Mark, to tell him that he thought of him every day. But what good would it do? They had already suffered the pain of parting once. 

He had written twice more to Mr Penrose enquiring after Mark’s health. Mr Penrose had replied to the first with a brief note to say that Mark had recovered. The second received a reply that shattered any hope George had left for the two of them. 

_Mark is very well,_ the letter read. _But I think it for the best that he cuts all ties with Truro for now. He seems to have had his heart broken by some careless girl, and for his own good it is best that he look to his future and not his past. He is a clever lad and I can make much use of him here._

The worst of it was that George could not think of a way to argue with this decision. After all, George had caused Mark to be uprooted from everything he had - his job, his friends, his home. And why would someone as kind as Mark want anything to do with someone as vengeful as George? 

Mr Penrose was quite right and he seemed very fond of Mark. He had found him a good home at least. 

But the crushing of all hope is a hard thing to endure without being changed. George felt frozen inside. His dealings with clients of the bank grew harsher, his business deals more ruthless. 

“The iron has entered your soul,” his Uncle said proudly. George only wished it were true.

 

\-------------------

 Four years later

\-------------------

 

“Ross Poldark is alive.” 

George had been rehearsing this inside his head all morning and it had been worth it. He sounded so casual, so nonchalant, as long as his Uncle did not turn and see how he fidgeted with nerves. 

Ross. Back from disgrace, back from war, his face wrecked with scars so it was said. Back to his father’s ruin and death. To Elizabeth’s transfer of affections to his cousin. But alive. And in desperate need of help. 

"At school, I rather admired him." He looked out the window as he said this, in case anything about his face gave him away. As if this was just a bit of town gossip and not a piece of news that had left his stomach churning with excitement and fear since he’d heard. _He was back after all these years._

His Uncle seemed utterly unsuspicious. 

“I wonder if he might not be useful to us,” George continued. This was the kind of sentiment his Uncle understood. And it was a viewpoint George himself was coming around to more and more as time passed. 

“To what end?” 

"Doors which are closed for us, might open for him." George could hear the wistfulness creep into his voice and pursed his lips. None of that. But he could not help but hope that friendship with Ross would be something to look forward to. The thought that Ross could want him again, even just as consolation, fired through George. He had been so alone. 

 

\----------------

 

George had dressed especially carefully for Francis’ wedding. He had decided to arrive in grand style, sweeping up to the church in his best carriage, resplendent in a new suit only finished that morning. He would show the assembled gentry just how successful the Warleggans had become in the last few years. 

He was rewarded with a glimpse of Ross standing on the drive as he alighted from his carriage. My God he was as heart stopping as he had ever been; the scar was nothing at all. George could not quite look at him, his heart thudding just as it had when he was a schoolboy. 

To think that once he had been able to claim that mouth, that throat. That those hands had been on him, in the most intimate of places, in the most intimate of moments. And God, it had been so long since anyone had wanted to do such things with him he could scarcely bear to remember it. 

It was utterly disconcerting to have feelings like this again. He had suppressed all such thoughts as hard as he could after Mark’s departure and thrown all his energy into one thing - making money. And it had been a success. He had felt himself changed, grown up at last; not the silly boy who wore his heart on his sleeve and acted from passion rather than reason.

 

\--------------------

 

George stood near Ross as the wedding dance began, Ross’s presence a heat that only he could feel. His every nerve could sense him there, as he forced himself not to look at him. 

And then his Uncle Cary began spouting off in that awful, rough way of his about calling in the bailiffs on the Poldarks, loudly enough to be overheard. George wanted to shake him. He could never show any respect to those who owed the Bank money, and it mortified George. He stole a sideways glance at Ross then, and was unsurprised to see a look of disgust on his face.  “This is elegant talk for a wedding, Uncle,” George said, but his Uncle was bold with wine and conceit and would not be stopped. 

George took a breath as Ross stalked past him, his face made more beautiful than ever with rage. He watched as he disappeared into a side room and closed the door behind him. 

An opportunity at last. 

He must smooth things over, he told himself. Extend the olive branch; let Ross see that he had not become like his Uncle. 

But on entering the room his heart thudded so wildly he thought Ross would hear it. He found he had to keep looking away from Ross, as if to look for too long on his face would turn him to stone. It was too much, he was so close, so handsome. 

He heard himself make a stupid joke about the scar on Ross’s face, asking him if he’d got it in action or by brawling. Ross took it in fairly good humour at least. 

“Old habits die hard,” he said, and smiled at George almost in the old way, and the flicker of memory which passed between them struck right through George.  His eyes fluttered closed over a thousand recollections - the taste of Ross, the feel of his chest, his arms, the sound of his moans. 

And thrown into confusion by all these memories he found himself offering not only the services of the Bank to Ross, but his friendship yet again. 

“No thank you George, I believe I can manage,” Ross said, as George should have known he would. Why had he thought Ross would ever respond differently? 

George met his eyes and found Ross was looking at him with an expression of distaste. _Why was he always like this?_ He never had understood Ross’s distrust. He could have had his friendship, his support, his intimacy. Just because he had worked hard and become a success while Ross’s fortune had crumbled, there was no reason why they could not make a partnership. There was no reason they could not stand as equals. 

Well if Ross would not see it for himself, then it was down to George. He would show him the man he had become. 

Ross began to leave the room, and turned as he left. “Elizabeth would be delighted by talk of bailiffs on her wedding day.” 

George lifted his chin defiantly and looked Ross in the eye. "Well, Elizabeth’s delight is surely no longer your concern." 

George remembered then their last fight at school. When George had held out the hand of friendship and Ross had rejected it. H _e would have to be desperate_ , he had said. 

Well then, let it be so. 

George would make him desperate.

 

\--------------

 

At first it had just been their old half-friendly antagonism; they needled at each other, each trying to make the other react. George did not quite know when the turning point had come for him, when it turned from fun to deadly seriousness. When he had decided he would take all Ross had; that he would defeat him. 

He tried scheme after scheme but nothing dented Ross. He always had a new plan, new hope. George watched him fall in love with the wild red-haired girl he married and was destroyed inside by jealousy. Not because he wanted Ross now - that was the strange thing. It was jealousy of his happiness that shattered him. The happiness that might have come with Mark, if they had been able to find a way, if George had been braver. He hated Ross for being in love, or had done during those years of half madness. That Ross could boldly have an unconventional marriage like that, and not care what a soul thought of him. And with someone so like Mark, George thought; a loving, straightforward, kind person from the wrong rung of society’s ladder. They were together and George and Mark were not, just because they were men and because George was afraid. 

He seemed to fall into a vile, poisonous state of mind; a depression of spirits. His only driving force was besting Ross, trying to ruin him, trying to force him to need George - or at least need his Bank. Punish him for not caring. 

It sickened George now to think how he’d tried to break him, using every ounce of influence his money could buy him. Using Francis against him, even. He had been so vicious, so cold - he hardly recognised himself. They had come close to killing each other for God’s sake. 

And oh, how it had pleased Uncle Carey. Surely that realisation should have stopped him, but it did not. 

Francis dying did. 

That at last had shaken some sense into him - his friend who had sunk into bad ways, who he hadn’t helped but in fact had probably aided in his downward spiral. He had been so caught up in his twisted obsession that he hadn’t spared him a thought. Uncle Carey had passed on, and with him the worst of the schemes that George had participated in. 

He had married Elizabeth, after Francis died. He had offered and she had accepted, and both knew that there was no love in it. A mutual understanding perhaps. Shelter from poverty, and a future assured for Geoffrey Charles. He could at least offer help to Francis’s child. 

And slowly his anger at Ross seeped away, leaving only shame behind. 

He had attempted to perform his marital duties, but it was a terrible failure, though Elizabeth was kindness itself. So he found he could confess to her what sort of man he was, and she said that she understood it, and did not think badly of him. 

It was a relief for them both. They both agreed they should never have married, but as luck would have it, they liked each other. And so they made it work. 

She spent most of her time at the country house outside Truro and George did not ask too much about her life there. She had an admirer, he thought, who stayed with her often. But he did not ask any further, and any staff found speculating about it were dismissed on the spot. 

George went down there on occasion, just for the look of the thing. But most of the time he lived in his house in the centre of town. 

Warleggans’ Bank kept him well occupied at least. The small amount of reputation he had lost during his ruthless attacks on Ross was soon regained in the face of the Bank’s relentless success. And in some ways he preferred to be seen as ruthless; it kept people at arm’s length. He began dress even more severely and correctly as though playing the part of the heartless banker. Perhaps if he played the part long enough it would become true. His heart had always been the source of the trouble.   

He made secret reparations towards Ross when he could; sending business his way without disclosing who was recommending him; offering paid labour for Ross’s miners on his own estate when one seam dried up and they halted work to search for another. He had more money than he knew what to do with in any case, and could not lavish any more luxury on Elizabeth or Geoffrey Charles than he already did. For all that he had wanted to bankrupt Ross a couple of years back, he would happily give him barrow loads of money now, if he could think of a way he would accept it. 

William had died too, a couple of years back. Drowned trying to prevent a looting of a wreck; what a terrible accident, people said. George wondered how accurate the accounts of that night really were. 

Even though William was gone at last, George did not contact Mark. In truth, he had never contacted him again. It would only have been selfishness on his part to do so and God knew he had been selfish enough. For what would Mark have, back in Truro? There was nothing here for him now. George had ruined all that. 

It was not much of a life, if he let himself think about it, so he tried not to. If he ever attempted to think of the future, he felt overwhelmed by the _length_ of it. He was not far off 30 and could expect to live at least as long again.  Yet it seemed that everything that was likely to happen to him had already happened, and the rest would just be working, and waiting. 

He had kept Mark’s bottle of poison all these years, and it sat on the mantle in his bedroom where he had placed it that day.

He did not like to think too deeply about why he had kept it, but he liked to know that it was there.


	10. Epilogue

George Warleggan arrived at his Bank that morning with the sense of creeping restlessness he often felt these days. Walking past the rows of clerks, their heads bent over their ledgers, he caught sight of himself in one of the mirrored wall panels and felt a surge of frustration. He looked so old and stuffy in his dark formal clothes for someone not yet thirty. He thought back to the waistcoat he had worn to his first ball ten years ago, the one that had so outraged Ross. Funny to think he had worn such a thing; he could barely think of those happier times now.   

There was no sound in the room but the scratching of pens and the rustle of paper. George felt suffocated. He suddenly wondered what would happen if he were to begin overturning the desks, throwing the ink pots around, trampling on the accounts. Would anyone try to stop him? Or would they just watch him, mouths open like so many goldfish? What if he insisted that all the clerks stand up on their desks and leap from one to the next until they had been all around the room, like that game he had played at school?   

He felt himself start to grin at the thought and clenched his fists by his sides. Perhaps he was going mad. That would be something new at least. He briefly imagined his head clerk leading him away by the elbow and calling for Doctor Enys to give him a tonic. Or perhaps they would fetch the Guards to throw him into an asylum. 

He tried to compose himself and push these strange thoughts from his head. It was a normal business day at the Bank. He was about to have appointment after appointment with people who did not want to hear what he had to say; who would whine, or cajole or rage at him, and push him to the very limits of his temper. Such was the work of a glorified money lender. 

He sat down at the ornate desk in his office and rested his face in his hands, trying not to think too hard about the days upon weeks upon months upon years he would be having similar, infuriating appointments. 

This, over and over until he dropped, he thought. _How can it be borne_. 

Now was not the time to give into this strange mood of despair he told himself. His first appointment of the day was due at any second. 

Right upon the hour, there was a smart knock at his door. George raised his face from his hands just in time. A tall man came into the room, closing the door behind him. Handsome, George noticed, richly dressed and hair arranged in the latest style. And yet he had a strange shyness about him. Perhaps he had not been rich long, George thought. He looked down quickly at his diary. Though this appointment had been written in there by his clerk, there were no details as to who this person was or what he required. 

George stood and came around his desk, holding out a hand. 

“I apologise sir,” he began. “I am afraid I have not been given your name.” 

The man grinned at him then, and George’s world tilted on its axis. 

_Mark._

“George!” he said. “Don’t you recognise me? I hoped to surprise you.” 

George could not speak. 

A small frown dented Mark’s handsome forehead. “Shouldn’t I have come?” he said quickly. “It has been ten years, I thought it would be safe. I shall go if you wish it, I don’t want to…” 

“Don’t go,” managed George at last. He felt his face begin to split into the most enormous smile. “For God’s sake, don’t go anywhere. Stay here, exactly here. I want to make sure you are real.” 

Mark laughed then and he sounded exactly as he used to. “Oh I’m real. Here,” he grasped the hand George had started to proffer, and squeezed it tightly. “Flesh and blood. And I have money to invest in your bank. If you’ll have it.” 

“Of course I will. But Mark, how…” he was lost for words. “You look…” 

“You look just the same,” said Mark, his eyes wandering over George appreciatively. “I always thought you were handsome, and you still are. Your waistcoat is fancier.” 

“Well so is yours,” said George, laughing in wonder. 

“I suppose you’re wondering where the money’s come from. Twas your friend you sent me to. Such a grand gentleman. We got along like a house on fire. Oh, not like that,” Mark said, shaking his head at George’s expression. “But as though we were father and son. He was kind. He taught me to read and write. I learnt the business from him, and I had some ideas he was kind enough to listen to. He left me everything last year when he died.” 

“I never knew what had happened to you after I sent you there. I didn’t know if you were happy,” said George. 

“I could not write to tell you. And by the time I had learnt how, I did not like to bother you. Mr Penrose thought it best if I let you alone. But I’ll thank you now. You could not have done me a greater service,” said Mark, and held George’s gaze for a long moment, until George glanced away, feeling an inexplicable shyness. 

“And what of you?” said Mark. “You are married?” 

“After a fashion,” said George lightly. 

Mark nodded. “Tis something I’ve never attempted,” he said. “I never could act a part very well.” 

“No,” said George. “You were always very much yourself.” 

They stood in awkward silence for a moment, George’s whole being trembling with all he wanted to say. 

There was a knock at the door and his head clerk poked his head into the room. “Your next appointment is here Mr Warleggan,” he said. 

“Thank you,” George said. “But I’m afraid all my appointments this morning will have to be cancelled. This gentleman has brought me some extremely urgent business.” 

“Yes sir,” said the clerk, and closed the door again. 

“Tis funny to hear you call me a gentleman,” said Mark, his eyes twinkling. “When you think how we met.” 

And just like that, George was deluged with memories of it. His waistcoat being unbuttoned, parted red lips sliding across his own, a hat placed gently on his head. _Don’t be awkward_. 

“You have always been a gentleman,” George told him, his heart swelling. _He loved him still_ , he realised. _He always had._

Mark took a breath. “George,” he said softly just the way he used to say it, tilting his head a little, moving forward an infinitesimal amount. George ached as he took in Mark’s dark copper curls, and the fullness of his mouth, and the soft look in his eyes. And half-drunk with happiness, he stepped forward and kissed him. Kissed him and kissed him, and Mark was kissing him back, crushing George to him and holding him tightly as though George might try and get away from him. As if George ever wanted to let him go again. 

They broke for a moment and looked at each other in wonder. “I did not think I would ever see you again,” George said. 

“Nor I,” Mark said. “But as soon as I saw you just now, I knew I would not be able to pretend to myself. Or you. I want you just the same as I ever did.” 

“Good,” George said, lifting a hand to Mark’s cheek. “That’s good. Because you have been all I have wanted these past ten years.” 

In answer Mark kissed him again, and George almost cried at the comfort of it. It was so familiar. He smelled the same and he tasted the same and his body felt just as wonderful against George’s as it had when they had first met. Before everything had fallen to pieces. Before he’d become so monstrous and vengeful and cruel. 

“Tell me you’ve come back to Truro. That you plan to stay,” George said. 

“I...” said Mark slowly. “I had not thought.” 

“Don’t think,” said George, recklessly. “Just say you will. If you disappear again, I’ll…” George sought for a suitable threat. “I’ll send my bailiffs to find you.” 

Mark started to laugh then, and so did George. Mark held George at arm’s length, looking at him as though he was a miracle, then pulled him back against him, kissing his forehead, his face, his hair. 

“I have sold the business and the house. I thought to visit you, invest some money with you. Show you what I have made of myself. Then travel perhaps, see London. Educate myself. I never allowed myself to think...I only wanted to look upon you again.” 

“I have never forgotten you,” said George. “It was all my fault we parted. I should have gone with you. I was such a coward.” 

“I didn’t think you would give me a thought. You have made such a success of yourself.” 

George pulled him close. At any moment a clerk could knock at the door and he could not care less. 

“I am not successful in any way but money,” George said. “If you knew...if you could see what I have become.” 

“Well now, have you become a murderer since I saw you last?” 

“I tried to ruin a man just because I could,” said George. 

“And did you succeed?” Mark said gently. 

“I did not.” 

“And do you try still?” 

“I do not.” George shook his head. “I was trying to make him pay for something that was not his fault.” 

“You like revenge, tis your weakness,” Mark said. “We all have weaknesses. Mine is for handsome men with big grey eyes who own large banks.” 

“That is...very specific,” said George, beginning to smile. 

“Tis vanishing rare. And when I find it, I am very weak,” Mark grinned. 

“Weak enough to stay?” George said, looking Mark directly in the eye. Mark bit his lip and slipped his hands around George’s waist beneath his waistcoat, pulling him closer. George’s breath caught in his throat at the feel of their warmth so close to his skin. 

“I know we have not seen each other in an age. I know it seems like madness,” George said nervously as Mark’s silence lengthened. “But I think we can be happy. We always were, when we were together. Weren’t we?” 

He held himself still, waiting for Mark’s reply. And his heart nearly leapt from his chest as Mark began to nod. 

“Of course I will stay,” he said softly and George felt dizzy with joy. 

“And you’ll be with me.” 

“And I’ll be with you,” Mark said, a smile spreading over his face. 

“And you’ll live with me.” 

Mark’s hazel eyes widened. “How will we…” 

“I don't care,” said George with slow realisation. “I don’t. They can drag me off to hang me if they like. I want you to be with me, just like other people are together. I will not live alone any more. We can think of a story. You can be a cousin. I don’t _care_.” 

“A cousin,” Mark said. “So I am to be a Warleggan then?” 

“If you can bear it,” said George. 

“And give up such a fine name as Smith?” Mark said.  “Mark Warleggan,” he said, half to himself. “It is...” 

“It is what your name would be if I could…” George paused. “If we were…” He could not quite articulate what he wanted to say. “It is what I have always wanted,” he finished awkwardly. 

“Well then, so it will be,” Mark said gently. “For who am I to deny you what you have always wanted.” 

“And what is it that you want?” asked George. Mark slid his hands into George’s hair and kissed him gently on the mouth. 

“I want a brandy,” he said. “A large one. And then, George Warleggan, I want you to take me home. Because if I do not take you to bed within the next hour, I think I will run mad.” 

“Well,” said George, feelings awakening in him that he had almost forgotten. “We cannot have that.” 

The days upon weeks upon months upon years that had so oppressed him a few moments ago seemed nothing at all. How could he have been so despairing? 

_This over and over until he dropped_ , he thought as Mark kissed him again. He could bear it very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh come on, I had to give him a happy ending, didn't I? I couldn't put him through all that for nothing :)
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who has stuck with this fic and read to the end. Your comments and chat have been so lovely! Season 2 of Poldark is about to start in the UK and I'm very excited to see it, but wanted to get this written and posted before a whole new season's worth of canon (and headcanon) arrived...
> 
> I am on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mildredmost) if anyone would like to say hello or join in with my Poldark ramblings <3


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